Rather than recounting history from a distance, America by Mike Bond approaches a turbulent era through lived experience. Youth, ambition, and uncertainty move alongside cultural revolution and political unrest as personal journeys reflect a country in transition.
In a decade marked by unrest and reinvention, four young people search for direction as the world around them shifts at breakneck speed. Troy, orphaned early, finds comfort in family and dreams of flight and space exploration. Tara claims independence and identity through music, growing into a rock โnโ roll performer shaped by freedom and rebellion. Mick, a football standout with a defiant edge, begins questioning authority as the war abroad becomes impossible to ignore. Daisy, driven by ideals of equality and service, joins the Peace Corps and devotes herself to understanding the human mind. Their lives intersect amid protests, cultural shifts, and personal awakenings, revealing how private choices are shaped by national turmoil. Through moments of joy, loss, and reckoning, America captures both the exhilaration and the cost of a time that redefined livesโand a nation.
Mike Bond is the author of nearly a dozen bestselling novels and an ecologist, war and human rights journalist, award-winning poet, and international energy expert. His work spans more than thirty countries across seven continents, often drawn from firsthand experiences in remote, dangerous, and war-torn regions. His novels are praised worldwide for their intricate plots, vivid settings, and explosive pacing. His reporting has covered wars, revolutions, terrorism, and major environmental crises. Learn more at his website.
THE BOY STARED through the cyclone fence at the dirt road, golden meadow and forested hills beyond. He listened a moment more to the din of other boys playing in the concrete yard behind him, scrambled up the cyclone fence ripping his shirt on the barbed wire top and dashed across the meadow uphill into the cool shadowed forest.
Minutes later he glanced down from the hilltop at the hostile brick walls and barred windows of the orphanage. A black Ford police car with white doors had stopped at the gate, its yellow roof globe flashing. Two priests and a cop were walking along the road, one priest gesturing at the forest.
He imagined them catching him, hitting him, wished heโd never run away, turned uphill through the dark trees then down a wooded valley to a stream. He knelt in the wet moss, his reflection rising toward him โ dirty and skinny, tan hair askew โ and drank the icy water tasting of rock and mud. So this is what itโs like to drink from a stream.
He followed the valley for a long time till he saw a dirt road ahead through the trees. A big red car was there. Afraid heโd been seen, he pulled back into the trees. From the carโs open windows came voices, a man and woman. If he moved back up the hill theyโd surely see him. Heโd be taken back to the Boysโ Home, the Fathers would whup him.
A warm breeze stirred the leaves. His heart hammered, his knees shook with fear and fatigue. Soon the car would leave and he could cross the road.
The woman was moaning. Holding his breath he listened. The man must be hurting her. She cried out; the boy glanced round but there was no one who could help.
Shivering with fear, he worried what to do. If the man killed her and he had done nothing to help, it was a terrible sin. But if he tried to help her heโd get sent back to the Boysโ Home. Standing, he tried to see better. The man was pushing the woman down in the back seat, maybe strangling her.
The boy dashed across the road and banged on the car. โYou leave her alone Mister!โ he yelled, voice shaking, โIโll call the cops!โ
They were naked from the waist down. โGet him out of here!โ the woman screamed. The man threw open the back door shouting, โYou little shit!โ and slapped the boy hard across the head. The boy tumbled into the ditch and scrambled through brambles uphill. The man wasnโt following but the boy kept running, gasping for wind, legs weak with fear that the man would circle somehow and get him. He ran till he could run no more, stumbled, fell, and ran again.
After a while he stopped and bent over panting, watching behind him. He couldnโt stop shivering but wasnโt cold. He tried to talk to himself and his voice trembled. His head spun, his ears whined. If the man wasnโt killing her what was he doing? Why had she said get him out of here? Why were they naked like that?
Confused and terribly lonely, the boy moved on through the forest, jumping in terror at the crash of an animal running away, a flash of tawny fur. Even the Boysโ Home was better than this.
In late afternoon he came to a big place of empty, run-down tarpaper-covered buildings, some of their windows broken, tall grass spiking up from their concrete yards. He felt hungry and afraid, then angry at himself for feeling it. He snuck along one building and looked in a window hoping for something to eat, but there were only empty concrete floors, yellowed newspapers, rusty cans, torn tarpaper, and a broken toilet lying on its side. He slipped through a half-open door and stepped silently from room to room around broken bottles, boards with nails sticking up and chunks of fallen ceiling.
A window shattered overhead and he ducked into a closet, broken glass in his hair, deafened by his pounding heart, hoping whoever it was hadnโt seen him.
Maybe it was a bird hit that window. Stupid bird.
He tiptoed from the closet toward the door. Another window crashed. He ran stumbling over cans and bottles. Someone was shooting at him. At the door he halted, fearing what to do. Blood ran down his cheek onto his shirt. They were going to kill him.
Steps scuffed outside in the concrete courtyard. A kid. The kid picked up a rock and slung it. Glass shattered and the rock hopped across the floor inside.
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NOW ENJOY THIS GUEST POST FROM AUTHOR MIKE BOND
Why We Are Here
Many years ago I woke from a dream of being in a large place like a supermarket full of people. I met a young man with long dark hair who looked like me. โWhy are we here?โ I asked him.
โTo find out what it is.โ
โWhat what is?โ
โLife.โ
I awakened understanding that this was the task we are all given in life. That in good years and bad, joys and sorrows, our unerring goal is to understand life, to seek the meaning of this vast mystery encompassing us. To find out what life is and spread the word, like scouts returning to the tribe from distant and dangerous lands.
We are in an infinite universe of endless infinities. They stretch in all dimensions far beyond our feeble cognition. Time is forever, and forever unknowable. Even deep inside ourselves we cannot begin to understand.
We are children of the void. We go through many joys and sorrows in life, many magical mysteries we cannot comprehend. Perhaps what we experience feeds a greater wisdom far beyond our ken; we cannot know.
Like many people, I have lived through great joys and dangers โ atrocious wars and vicious perils, and deep, long-lasting love, that have all made me believe in God. And to live deeply, intensely, to love, have children and give them the magical mystery of life โ this is what we are born for.
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 Forbesโs โWhat Comes Next.โ
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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.
โMy life is perfectly fine.โ
Alex has pretended this for yearsโdespite 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 theyโll get tested. Until then they go after everything theyโve 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 canโt 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 lifeโespecially happinessโcomes 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 protagonistโs life, especially with Remy and the frequency of animal abandonment due to past trauma, making it difficult to train or home them, mirrors the protagonistโs 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 personโs life amidst the trauma.
The Verdict
Memorable, heartfelt, and engaging, author Caitlin Forbesโs โWhat Comes Nextโ is a must-read womenโs 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 bookโs final chapters. If you havenโt 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 relationshipsโfrom 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.ย
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 Goodwinโs blog for a guest post by author Caitlin Forbes about the question of inheritance โ of what we inherit versus what we get to choose.
Stop by Katherineโs blog for her review of What Comes Next by Caitlin Forbes. Youโll 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 yearsโdespite 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 theyโll get tested. Until then they go after everything theyโve 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 canโt 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 lifeโespecially happinessโcomes with a risk worth taking.
Caitlin Forbes is a Maine-based author who writes stories that explore the messiness of relationshipsโfrom 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, Iโm 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.
Iโm supposed to meet my roommate, Holly, for drinks. But it was a last-minute inviteโwith people I donโt know, planned days or even weeks earlierโand now I feel uncomfortable. As if Iโve become the kind of obligation that I never wanted to be. Weโve been best friends for nearly a decade, but these days, things are different, and I donโt know that I want to feel the strain of it tonight. Iโm 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.
Iโm 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 heโs 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 Iโm wearing pants.
Nathan. Those first two years of college. Nights spent squeezed onto a twin bed in his dorm room, pretending we werenโt uncomfortable just so we could fall asleep together. The summer Iโd spent with his family at Lake Winnipesaukee. Campfires and smoky hair. His lips, pillow soft. Water. An excess of waterโone oversize tube, our limbs tangled together. Salty tears.
โAlex?โ
Itโs 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.
โWhat are you doing here?โ I ask. Iโm relieved my voice sounds calm. Disengaged, even. Because it doesnโt matter that he is here. Because it doesnโt matter what we once were.
โI need your help,โ he says.
I stare at him blankly, but heโs not looking at me. Heโs looking over his shoulder. Heโs 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.
โI saw your video,โ he says. โAnd Iโwe need your help.โ
The video. The one that changed my life right up until it didnโt.
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 boredโworking a second job and involved in a fling to pass the timeโand then suddenly, I was also something else. A dog whisperer, people typed. Cesar Millan but softer, with a womanโs touch. Silly. Casually sexist.
But something just the same.
After the video, it was Hollyโs 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 elseโthe administration and the management. The promotions. Weโd 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 DogKindโs 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 launchedโus 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 didnโt 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 youโre 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 wasnโt 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 โdog whisperer.โ 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 donโt have regrets. Except, there are these momentsโwhen I see a short haircut on a blonde, when Instagram flashes up a memory of a pupโand itโs like my whole body freezes over. A little voice in my head, whispering, You can go back if you just stay still.
โHow did you find me? I took down my website ages ago.โ
โAn old testimonial from a woman named Lois, I think?โ Nathan says. โHer address is publicly listed. So I called her. She pointed me in your direction.โ
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 grandmotherโthat careful mix of kind and overbearing. Sheโs a lifelong dog rescuer and was DogKindโs first client.
Lois never wanted me to quit.
I sneak a peek at him while heโs checking the car, again. Heโs still handsome. Those eyes, and dark-brown hair with the slightest hint of redโthe 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. โI donโt train anymore,โ I say.
He lifts a shoulder. The gesture looks comfortable on him. Like heโs 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.
โShe thought you might still help.โ
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.
โListen, I donโt know what you saw in that video, but itโs notโsheโs not me.โ
โShe sure looked like you.โ
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 electricโsomething more than angerโpasses between us. Right here, on my dirty Somerville stoop, wearing the bottom half of my pajamas, everything else recedes. For three breaths, itโs just us.
A car drives by with the windows open, the radio blaring through the street. I take a step back.
โIโll give you a referral,โ I say. โI know a lot better trainers than me out there.โ
โAlex.โ I hate the way he says my name. โI know that you and I . . . that our history makes this tough . . .โ 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.
โIโm sorry,โ he says firmly. โYou know that I am sorry.โ
I shake my head. I donโt want an apology. Iโm embarrassedโmortified, reallyโthat I still care. That he knows that I still care. That heโs still talking, and Iโm 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. โThis isnโt about us. Iโm not a trainer anymore. I havenโt worked with a dog in almost two years.โ
โHer name is Remy,โ he says. โShe only has three months.โ
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. Iโd been laughing about something with Holly, and then sharp wood pressed deep under my skin.
โRemy bit someone,โ he says. I can feel his eyes studying my half-turned face. โSheโs 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 canโt document improvement . . .โ
His voice trails off, but I donโt need him to finish. I already know how this goes. Iโve seen it before.
Ninety days. He has ninety days to prove that she can be trusted. Or euthanasia. Thatโs what the court told him.
Of course, they have it all wrong. Itโs not about us trusting her. Itโs whether sheโll 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. Sheโs 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 heโs worth waiting for.
I bite my lower lip. โYour vet must have given you referrals,โ I say.
โThey were booked out for a month. And the other ones I called wouldnโt take her. They say sheโs hopeless.โ His jaw clenches. โBut, Alex . . . Iโve seen what you can do.โ
โYou saw an edited video. If theyโre telling you sheโs a lost causeโโ
โWe used to say that lost causes were an excuse.โ
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.
โI know I shouldnโt be here, okay,โ he says. โI 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.โ
Itโs all classic Nathan: unapologetic and determined. Nathanโs not used to people saying no, especially when it comes to โdoing the right thing.โ He can be an assโtoo cocky, with expectations that are too highโbut heโs a genuinely good guy. And heโs never had much patience for people who donโt step up.
It was one of the first things I loved about him.
It was also one of the things that I hated.
โNathanโโ
โPlease,โ 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. Heโs scared for her.
Remorse crowds my stomach because, back then, I could have helped him. But I am not the girl he remembers, and Iโm not whoever he thinks he saw online. โI canโt,โ I say. โIโm sorry. I really am.โ
He looks like heโs about to argue. I expect him to argue. But then, itโs as if he deflates in front of me. His whole chest sinks inward. Itโs not a look Iโve ever seen on him. Or one that I like.
โYeah, no, I get it,โ he says.
โIโm not what she needs,โ I mumble.
โSure, okay. Iโm sorry for showing up like this.โ Itโs awkward now. His voice is clipped, and heโs running his hands through his hair like he does in those rare moments when heโs uncomfortable. I donโt have to check to know the back pieces will stick up.
โListen, leave your number,โ I say. โI know a lot of trainers. Iโll find her someone, okay?โ
He nods. โYeah, okay, sure. Thank you.โ I can tell he wants to leave. I can tell I am a disappointment. And maybe itโs 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 heโd 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 Hollyโs 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.
Itโs 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 Iโm 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 thereโs stuff that I could do to improve my life. Books I could read. Skills I could learn. I know thereโs stuff Iโm supposed to be doing. Just like I know thereโs a person Iโm supposed to be becoming.
Except, when I think about that person, sheโs just as alien as she was when I graduated from college. And Iโm not sure how to change that. Iโm not sure how to explain that between work and all the daily stuff in my life that is really not that hard, that I donโt know how to become. How the being takes up all the energy that should go toward the becoming.
I didnโt 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 handsโat the piece of paper still threaded between my fingers, with a number and a nameโand 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 Systemโto observe, participate, and gather information. But as she learns the ways of each world, she must also hunt for those who defy their worldโs 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 secretโthe loss of her first love, exiled as an Outlier.
Longing to see beyond their own world, the ambassador proposes a rescue missionโone 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. โFocus,โ I told myself. Grabbing my communication cuff, I fastened it around my wrist. โINS communications, activate.โ I opened my wardrobe and reached for a freshly pressed uniform. โAurelia, give me todayโs briefing.โ
It lit up and responded. โYour 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?โ
I crouched to lace up my boots. โI accept.โ
โOn 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.โ
I rose to my feet, skin prickling at the back of my neck. Though I couldnโt see it, I could feel it: two lowercase tโs under one capital T, branded at the top of my spineโa 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. โShe should have been there,โ I whispered. If only sheโd 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. Iโd never been to the Amorous World before. Perfect, I thought. Some fresh scenery was just what I needed.
* * *
I checked my cuffโzero 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; Brokazariaโs 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 Bโthe Middle Worldโs secondary, and thus miniature, sunโnot 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 โAI.โ New Intelligence, we were told, was a much more appropriate term.
L43 stepped forward. โAfternoon, miss.โ He grabbed my bag, allowing me to ascend the ladder.
โThanks,โ I said. I climbed to the top and crawled through the hatch.
โCatch!โ the NI yelled, tossing up my luggage.
With a reflex just quick enough, I caught the bag. โSergeant!โ I scolded. โWhat if there was something fragile in there?โ
โYou humans,โ he replied. โAlways afraid somethingโs gonna break. Your luggage, your bones, your bodiesโฆ not to mention your hearts and minds.โ
I rolled my eyes at the cheeky Machine. โWatch it, L, or Iโll get them to reboot you.โ
Unperturbed, the Machine grinned and waved. โIโll miss you, too. Bon voyage!โ
โSee you in three months,โ 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.
โPlay address,โ I said, eager to hear our leaderโs words.
A ghostlike image projected from my arm, transporting the manโs 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 lipsโthe beginnings of a goatee that never quite came to fruition. As always, a perfectly pressed suit hugged every one of his bulging muscles.
โGreetings, my children!โ The chairmanโs voice rumbled from a gaping grin, complete with gleaming teeth. โToday is a very special day, not only for the New Worlds Star System but for some of our most dedicated Mediators.โ
My ears perked up as I waited for more.
โToday 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 humanityโs Great Dispersion!โ
A swell of pride surged in my chest. I was part of something big and important.
โAll of this would not be possible without you,โ he declared, โour 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!โโthe chairman raised a finger, flashing one of his many gold ringsโโmost importantly, you have upheld the sovereignty of every truth within it.โ
I gave a humble nod, as though he could see me.
โLastly,โ the chairman said, โfurther 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.โ 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 cuffโTime 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 driftโฆ
It had to be worth it.
Author Bio
JAYE C. WATTS (he/they) is a queer and trans sci-fi writer living on Lษkฬสทษลษn territory in Victoria, BC, Canada. He holds a bachelorโs 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 isnโt writing, Jaye can be found falling down rabbit holes of all kinds thanks to an unquenchable curiosity and lust for learning โ 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.
Iโd 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 ballโall-knowing and all-powerful. I took in the dazzling show, watching its ethereal light cascade across the reflective solar panels covering the surrounding university.
โWhoa,โ Bray whispered, their voice reverent.
โGood golly,โ Logan uttered.
Medallia didnโt 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 oneโaside from the occasional NI and rogue Outlierโwas 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 werenโt 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.
โAll this,โ I marveled aloud, โfrom a bunch of ones and zeros.โ
Bray turned to me, furrowing their brow. โOnes and zeros?โ
I turned to meet their gaze. โOh, um… I was referring to binary code.โ
Their forehead crinkled even more.
โItโs a type of language,โ I explained. โFor computers. But not with words, just numbers. Ones andโโ I stopped myself, and instead summarized. โItโs… technology stuff.โ
Bray lifted their chin, acknowledging my poor attempt at clarification before turning back to the glowing orb. Any explanation involving the โt word,โ 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 sphereโs light continued to play across the grass. I couldnโt 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 Trappโs 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, โGuess they shouldโve taken my fingers, too.โ
Once inside, Trapp reactivated his headlamp. The spotโlight 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 graphsโstatistical 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 parentโs reaction.
โItโs okay,โ I said. โItโs just a robotโโa word I would never use on the Machine World. โItโs governed by preprogrammed instructions, which look to be nothing more than tidying up.โ I lifted my boots, one after the other, hoping we hadnโt tracked in any mud.
Brayโs 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.
โWell, hello there, little fella,โ he said, grinning.
โCleaning in progress,โ the bot replied “flatly. โStep aside please.โ
Logan chuckled, rejoining us as we continued down the hallway. He spun slowly, taking in everything the dim light allowed. โSo these were your olโ stomping grounds, eh, Trapp?โ
โIf by โstomping groundsโ you mean where I learned how to transcend time and space,โ Trapp replied, โthen yes.โ
Bray cast one last glance back at the retreating bot before asking, โWere you a teacher here?โ
โI was primarily a researcher,โ Trapp said. โI only taught to gain access to the labs. Iโd much rather make new discoveries than teach others about old ones.โ
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. โWeโre close now,โ he said, his words laced with determination. โJust a few more steps.โ 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, โOh no. I donโt go to those things because everyone is always trying to out-witch each other.โ
So, I found with todayโs 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. Voilaโneatly 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 itโs 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 systemsโCeltic, 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 sourceโin Hinduโs 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.โ
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 reasonโfeminist witches blame the oppressive patriarchyโwitchcraft 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 todayโs 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 personโs 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 โ 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 โ Hummingbird Moonrise โ 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 itโs 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 cafรฉ 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 donโt know. With my back against its trunk, and my feet wedged into the crooks of its limbs, Iโd 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 islandโs 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 โthe high school beatโ 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. โHello.โ
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. Thatโs 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.
โRoom up there for one more?โ Mr. Schmoe reached for a nearby branch. Long and lean, he levered himself up. โIโm interrupting you.โ
โItโs okay. Iโm stuck.โ I tapped the clipboard with my pencil.
โYouโll figure it out. I asked after you, whether you were off to college.
Your mother said it would be a while. Youโre a bit young still, she said.โ โThese are my trig calculations. Iโm studying trigonometry by
correspondence, through American Schools.โ
SHIRLEY MILLER KAMADA 17
โAmerican Schools? Iโve heard of that. Illinois, right? Trigonometry is usually taught in the senior year, isnโt it?โ
โYes, sir. But graduation? I want to get a jump on it. I feel ready to be done.โ
โWhat courses do you still need, in order to do that?โ โJust thisโtrigonometry.โ
โI see! Well, your mother sent me, said Iโd probably find you here, and sheโs about to serve crumb cake.โ
Lambs called from the pasture. โNice flock.โ
โThank you, sir. Theyโre Lincolns.โ
He braced to swing down. โIโll be heading inside.โ
โYou can go back in through the window if you like.โ
He grinned. โThanks, thatโs okay. Iโll tell your mother youโll be in soon.โ 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. Schmoeโs 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, โBombs. Innocent victims of conflict. Hundreds of thousands on the edge of starvation.โ I heard, โGoats. Cargo ship. Japan.โ One of the Peace Churches was organizing voyages and supervising volunteers to care for the animals. Finding volunteersโhe called them Cowboys, and friendly laughter followedโwas not easy. Goats arenโt 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 wasnโt 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, Iโd helped transport sheep to livestock judging competitions. YFC members worked together to pen and care for the sheep, sometimes for three days duration. Goats couldnโt 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, โDo you possess any special skills that would be of value to the project,โ I wrote, โI have cared for our familyโs flock of sheep, which are ruminants, as are goats, since I could walk.โ
SHIRLEY MILLER KAMADA 19
20 ZACHARY
Giving โGeneral Delivery,โ 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, โHello, young Mr. Whitlock. Say hello to your folks for me.โ 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 Oarthecaโa 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 areโand all they haveโcan 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!โ I shout angrily, futilely pushing at the rhino of a man smothering me. Goddamn heโs heavy but Iโm giving it everything Iโve 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.
โStay down, Baron!โ the security guard overtop of me orders, his voice hard and urgent. Thereโs 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 displayโsuitโs 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 engineeringโanything less, and Iโd be dead.
โNo!โ I hear a man yell. โNo, he killed my brother!โ
What?
โEvacuate, evacuate!โ 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.
Thereโs a pile of security guards clustered togetherโit looks like there are three of them surrounding a fourth, having driven him to his knees. One is wrenching the kneeling manโs rifle from his hands, but the man is not letting go anytime soon. It takes the butt of another security guardโs 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 guyโs a stormcoat, maybe a snowcoat, and I donโt even budge him a centimetre.
โThis way, Baron. Now,โ He pushes into me, using his superior bulk to knock me back. With one hand on my shoulder, he spins me around so that Iโm facing away from the scene.
โWhere is Ton?โ I demand, trying to slip this guyโs grasp but his grip on my shoulder is firmโnot painful, thanks to my exosuitโs kinetic absorptionโbut Iโm not getting free unless I put up a serious struggle, which I donโt think is the wisest of things to do right now.
โWeโll meet at the safe-point. Hurry, Baron, straight ahead,โ the rhino orders, and I follow as he steers me deeper into the docking bay. He sets a brisk paceโnearly a jogโweโre moving fast. A tug on my shoulder turns me left toward an open corridor, where two guards stand ready, rifles raised and scanning.
โInside, Baron.โ Iโm not used to being manhandled like this, but I know if this dude wanted to, he could pick me up like an infant. Heโs at least letting me move under my own power, so I do as Iโm told, and head into the corridor.
We head down a gently sloping, well-lit cement tunnelโhopefully toward the safe-point rhino-guy mentioned. Heโs 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.
โThrough the doors, Baron,โ 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. โWe are secured now, Baron. The safe-point is just down this hall.โ
โThank you,โ I reply genuinely. โI prefer Captain Hale, however. Whatโs your name, officer?โ
โSecond Lieutenant Crahlstran Grithrawrclan, OSS Navy, Captain Hale,โ the man answers. โIโve been assigned to you as your personal security representative. Are you injured?โ
I immediately shake my head. โNo, my suit took the damage. Iโm fine. Where is mโTon? Or the High Baron Grithrawr?โ
โAt or en route to the safe-point. Please, if you will follow me, Captain,โ 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 thatโs 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, Rowlandโs thoughts bounces around in his headโand so naturally, his inner monologue is going to reflect that. Toar loves to ramble on, so yes, heโs heavy-handed with his verbiage. Itโs 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, Iโve 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 โby-the-bookโ 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 โrulesโ 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 storyโs streamlined, but Iโve not skimped on the lavish detail when thereโs a call for it. True, not every reader will want to decode the important nuances of a high denning, but for those that do? Captainโs 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 tropeโweโre 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 isnโt supposed to be easy. That love isnโt 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 donโt 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, theyโre very welcome. Iโve laid out a feast that will satiate a hungry soul. But if theyโd rather stay outside and just critique the paint colour? Thatโs fine too.
Iโve thought about this a lot because itโs 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. Iโm not sure that is the best way to approach writing, or if itโs even recommended, but thatโs how I approached it. I wouldnโt say Iโve mastered short stories, but Iโve definitely written a lot of them now. Iโve 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. Thatโs what Iโm working on now.
Thatโs the path Iโve taken, but every writer I know has their own journey into writing and publishing. And if thereโs anything Iโve learned from all the writing books, courses and podcasts, itโs 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, Iโd do the same thing. Iโd write my short stories, create a collection and then work on a novel, like I am now. Iโm too early in my career to decide how successful itโs been overall, but itโs all I know and what Iโve done. And taking on any writing project is no small feat, so celebrate your writing and your path and donโt let anyone tell you youโre 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 Cafรฉ, 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 sheโs 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. Cutlerโs โTo Have and to Hold, To Love and to Kill: An Agreement of Souls.โ
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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 doesnโt 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 authorโs 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 Nikkiโs 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. Cutlerโs โTo Have and to Hold, To Love and to Kill: An Agreement of Soulsโ 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 havenโt 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.
