Tag: fiction

Do you care about me? A conversation about parasocial relationships

Do you like me? Do you really like me? Like, as a person?

I promise, this isn’t some desperate cry for attention. I’m not your ex or super needy friend texting you at 12:45 at night on a Thursday. Do you like me, Nicole, the person?

If you consider yourself a reasonably kind person, you might well want to answer yes. Of course you like me. You come here every week and read whatever writing or reading-related thing I’ve come up with between working and trying to keep my cat from eviscerating my roommates’ dog.

And yes, part of me wants you to like me. I am human. We all want to be seen and loved for who we are. But the other part of me, the larger part, doesn’t really give a damn. And if you’re a writer or content creator, you probably shouldn’t care if your fans like you, either.

That’s right, we’re talking about parasocial relationships today. And why they’re not only dangerous for everyone, but really don’t have any upsides.

Your readers can’t really know you

You can’t really like me as a person, because you don’t really know me as a person. You know the face I show to the internet.

This isn’t to say that I lie about the things I say online. I really am a writer, feral Christian, witch, progressive, horror fan who lives in Western PA and refers to Stephen King as dad. I really do love the books I praise and hate the books I berate.

But to know these things about me isn’t the same as knowing me. You can know a lot about a person online, and it’s not the same as having an actual relationship with them.

We know people in our real lives. People we’ve been able to have real-world back-and-forth conversations with. People who we’ve seen grow and change, and who have seen us do the same. Can this be done on the internet? Yes, of course. I have several good friends I’ve never met face-to-face. But it’s still a two-sided relationship with give and take.

Liking someone doesn’t always translate to liking their work

Even if you like a creator, that doesn’t mean that you like their creation. I love Cardi B as a person, but I don’t listen to any of her music. I like her politics, her sex positivity and the way she supports other female creators. But her music, while I can appreciate the quality and talent, isn’t for me.

Likewise, some people I am not fond of make some wonderful content. I don’t mean people I can’t justify supporting financially anymore. I mean people who are fine, just kind of dicks. Joss Whedon strikes me as a pompous ass. I’ll still watch almost anything he’s involved in.

Most people I’m a fan of, though, I don’t know a lot about. I know almost nothing about Sylvia Moreno Garcia, Grady Hendrix or Kirsten White. I’ll buy their books sight unseen. I don’t think liking them as people is a big part of that. It’s the fact that their books are fantastic.

Parasocial relationships are dangerous

I am very blessed. No one who’s ever been weird to me online has ever found me in real life. I’d love to keep it that way.

Other writers and content creators aren’t so lucky. One witch I follow on YouTube had someone trying to break into her home with a screwdriver. An Instagrammer had to move to another country because she was getting death threats and people were calling ICE on her.

Being online is scary. While the vast majority of people are perfectly kind and normal (And the comments you guys leave are so sweet!), it just takes one devoted crazy person to find a content creator and threaten their life.

This danger goes both ways. We’ve all heard horror stories of content creators taking advantage of their fans. Like Miranda Sings, for instance. The less said of her, the better.

That’s not why we’re here

We as writers and content creators aren’t here to make friends.

I don’t mean this in the mean, competitive way. I have certainly made friends in my writing journey. Other writers and creators are not my competition. And that is a blessing. But that isn’t why I started writing.

I started writing to tell stories. I started this blog to share my writing journey and hopefully help you with your journey. I’m assuming that you started writing to tell your stories.

No one needs to like us. They just have to like our stories.

So, do you like me? If so, that’s great. I’d probably like you too. But if you don’t, that’s alright. All I really want you to like is my writing.

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Why House of Quiet Works

Released in September of this year, House of Quiet is the latest novel by Kiersten White. This is the same author who brought us Mister Magic, Lucy Undying, The Dark Decent of Elizabeth Frankenstein, and Hide. Which is to say, the author of some of the best books I’ve read in the past few years.

House of Quiet is about a young woman named Birdie. She’s spent the last several years trying to find her little sister Magpie, who vanished after undergoing the mysterious Procedure. Birdie poses as a maid to get into the mysterious house of quiet. But what she finds there is a group of children who need to be rescued.

Today, we’re going to break it down and see why it works. Because there’s a lot that can be learned from this wonderfully dark, sweet tale.

Just jump in

The story starts in the middle of things. It starts with a mysterious woman wandering around the House of Quiet with a candle, bemoaning how loud it was.

We then jump to Birdie, heading to the house of quiet, thinking of all of the shady things she had to do to get there.

As we follow along, we only get an idea of the world she lives in and what she’s doing. We know that she’s grown up in crippling poverty. We know that she’s never speaking to her parents again. And that’s about it.

But that’s okay, because we’re going up to the house. We’re meeting the other new maids. We’re being drugged with tea. There is stuff going on, and there will be time to explain later. The important thing is that we’re not slowing down the start of our story. We are jumping right in.

Don’t over-explain

I spent a lot of this book trying to figure out what in the hell was going on. I wanted to know what happened to Magpie. I wanted to know what the procedure was. I wanted to know what had happened to Birdie’s friends. I wanted to know why Minnow was acting so strange.

And never once was any of this simply out and out explained.

No, the story was moving too fast for that sort of thing.

This was infuriating, but in a good way. Because everything is answered, eventually. It’s just that we have to piece things together as we go. Or, we find out as the characters do.

House of Quiet brought the ‘show don’t tell’ rule almost to its breaking point, but not quite. At no point did I feel so lost I thought I’d never catch up. But it wasn’t until near the end that I really felt like I knew what was happening.

This is a hard line to walk, giving just enough information for the reader to barely understand. But, I think the easiest way to do this is to have faith in your reader. Don’t feel like you’ve got to spell everything out for them. Leave some spaces for them to fill in the blanks themselves.

Anything can be used to world build

One of the most charming things about House of Quiet was the naming structure of the characters. People raised in poverty have animal names like Minnow, Magpie, and Birdie. People from the upper class have names like River or Forest.

This is a super quick and efficient way to give us information about a character with the fewest words possible. We know the character’s name, and we know what class the character is from. And in a book that is all about class warfare, that’s vital information.

This is a great example of using every element you can to world-build. Names, clothes, jewelry. Think about how all of these things impact our real world. And yes, you should be using any of these to show your world, rather than telling us about it.

Now, all this being said, this book wasn’t perfect. My biggest complaint, I think, is the relationship between the characters. They were, in my opinion, a little too sweet. They came together too quickly. They were too kind to each other. But, of course, this is a book for young adults. So maybe that’s why.

This was not enough to ruin the story for me. House of Quiet was a fun, heartwarming tale, and I enjoyed it greatly. If you haven’t read it yet, do it today.

Paper Beats World is a labor of love. If you love what I do here, please consider liking and sharing this post and leaving a comment. You can also support me financially on Ko-fi.

And while you’re there, you can pick up a copy of my Novel Planner.

Writing a novel is a journey! Here is your roadmap.
The Novel Planner takes you through four weeks of planning to help you successfully write a novel. Includes twelve pages to plan your time, your team and your life.
Also included are some useful pages to keep track of your wip, like a map page and an injury tracking chart.

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Why I love haunted houses

This is the speech I gave at my local library this past week. I’m still working on this week’s post, so please en

Hello. My name is Nicole Luttrell. I’m a local speculative fiction writer. That means I write about ghosts, dragons and spaceships. Sometimes I write about the ghosts of dragons on spaceships. 

I want to start by thanking Dianne and everyone here at the Butler Library for hosting this talk. And frankly, for being here and doing the job they do. Being a librarian has never been easy, but it seems to get harder all the time. 

I’ve written a fantasy series called Woven, which I have copies of today, about a prince who weaves visions and a princess who spins light. I also write a science fiction series called Sation 86. It’s about murder, politics and possibly the end of mankind on the station of First Contact. I have a QR code here so you can get the first book in that series free. 

But what I love writing most is horror. 

This month is my time to shine, yes. 

I became a writer for the same reason most people do. I love stories. I love reading. And that love has been well fed within these very walls for most of my life. One day it occured to me that someone had to write books the same way someone had to build cars or wait tables. Someone had to do it, so why couldn’t that be me? So I came to the library, and I found the section upstairs with the books about writing books. And there I found a copy of the Writer’s Market. 

If you’re not a writer yourself, or even if you’re just a writer who started submitting work after the internet was in everyone’s homes and pockets, you might not know about this book. It’s like a phonebook for the publishing world. Magazines, publishing companies and literary agents are all listed. Itwas a thing of beauty. An expensive thing of beauty that had to be replaced every year. But it made me feel like a real writer to use it. 

The Writer’s Market isn’t updated anymore because, again, internet. And while I certainly wouldn’t use it anymore, I’ll forever be grateful to it for helping me see that writing is a career as well as art. 

But it’s almost Halloween, and today, I want to talk about something scarrier than the publishing industry and a teenage girl’s flounderings through it. If there is anything scarrier than that. 

I wrote a book called Quiet Apocalypse. It’s about a witch named Sadie. She’s enjoying her quiet life as a school nurse, living in a cozy apartment with her dog Sage. 

Yes, Sage makes it.

Then a tree falls on her apartment building, and it lets something loose. Something bloody and dark. 

Allow me now to read the introduction. 

 The end of the world started on a dark winter night.

 Trees circled the apartment building at 437 Oakmont. They weren’t old trees, nor were they tall. Yet to look at them, one would think them ancient. They were twisted and gnarled. Every gust of wind found them, even when no other tree moved. The cold of winter clung in their branches, no matter the weather. Passersby didn’t like to dawdle along the sidewalk. The trees made them feel unwelcome. Children especially felt this, but of course, children always feel these things most keenly. 

 But we weren’t talking about children. We’ll come back to them. For now, we’re discussing the trees. 

 They’d been groaning and moaning for most of their lives. Sometimes you couldn’t hear them unless you were listening carefully. Other times the inhabitants of the apartment had to turn their TVs up to drown the trees out. But on one dark night in February, the sounds were unrelenting. There was a winter storm. The wind was hellacious, cutting through the town like a vengeful spirit. It took out hanging signs for stores on Main Street, brought down the old pine next to the library, and crashed Mr. Wallback’s patio table into his sliding glass window. Ashley Homestead regretted leaving her potted pine tree out for the night. It was thrown against the house from the back porch with such force that the pot shattered. 

Leslie Richard’s trampoline, covered over with a tarp for the season, was lifted and thrown into the yard of his next-door neighbor. 

 The wind rattled windows, pushed its way through cracks in the walls and around doors. Heaters couldn’t keep up with the sharp, blistering cold. The families in the apartment building were kept awake by it, huddled under blankets to keep warm.

The storm built up steam as it headed for Oakmont. It was as though those trees in a circle were its target, and it meant to have them. The storm came to a head at almost four in the morning. One of the trees, exhausted from a night’s battle, couldn’t hold on any longer. It came down, crashing into the roof and jutting sharp, dark branches into the attic apartment.

The wind died away almost at once. Gentle snow replaced it, covering the ice. The next morning this would cause several accidents. 

The trees that remained continued to scream, as though mourning their fallen brother.

I wrote Quiet Apocalypse for two reasons. First, I was starting to feel more comfortable as a witch. I wanted to write a character who was also a witch. A real world witch, not a magical creature one. 

Secondly, and what I really came here to talk about, I wanted to write a haunted house story. Haunted house stories have always been my favorite sort of story. The House Next Door, The Haunting of Hill House, The Amittyville Horror. These are the sort of books that keep me turning pages and rethinking every creak and groan in my own house. 

I’m not alone in my love of haunted houses. They’re a mainstay of the horror genre for a reason. We all want to think that our homes are our safe havens from the world. That our front door acts as a barrier to the bad things. The dark things.

So the thought of something lurking in the dark and dripping corners of our homes is viceral. But it’s also realistic. I would argue that haunted houses are the most realistic horror genre. 

Bad things happen in our homes. House fires from wires we didn’t even know were frayed. Carbon monoxide leaks. Storms large and powerful enough to rip and tear buildings apart. 

When was the last time you checked your smoke alarms? 

Quiet Apocalypse starts with a very mundane and realistic disaster. One that almost takes Sadie’s life before the story even starts. Allow me to read a passage.

 Sadie sat in the doorway of her ruined apartment. Her eyes were itchy, there were rivets of tears dried to her face. She had cried herself out the night before. Now she only wanted a shower and a good long rest. But, as a tree had crashed through the roof of her apartment, neither of those things could happen. 

 She knew she ought to be grateful. She’d been in the kitchen with Sage, her creamy colored lab mix when the tree came down. Branches seared through the exterior wall, crashing through her living room and bedroom. One had pierced right through her bed. It was still there, jammed right in the center of the quilt. If Sadie’d been asleep, she wouldn’t have survived. All she’d lost were things. She should be thankful for that. 

 When she was done mourning her things she would be. Her mother had made her that quilt. The crystals on the altar in her living room were all buried in the rubble. Her whole living room was a loss. What wasn’t destroyed in the crash or buried under the roof was damaged by the snow that had flooded in. 

And her books! Her family had given her irreplaceable books. Thank the Green Man Himself that her grandmother’s grimoire was at Aunt Helen’s place. But Sadie had her mother’s grimoire. And now it was destroyed. 

 She looked at the cardboard box that contained everything she now owned. There was her teapot, gray with a design of cherry blossoms. The cups that matched it had shaken loose from their shelf and shattered. 

There was her grimoire, a battered old sketchbook with a red cover. A french press, some herbs. A truly astounding assortment of tea. A handful of crystals and candles had been on her kitchen windowsill. Sage’s food and water bowl. That was all she had. 

 They were just things. Things that didn’t mean anything aside from everything. Ties to family members lost. Tools for her magical work and her mundane life. Decades of learning were destroyed in no time. 

A haunted house story can be seen as an alligory for accidents and natural disasters that threaten our families. But the ones that scare us the most, and stay with us the longest, are usually about family traumas and abuse. 

Amityville Horror is about a family tortured by dark entities until the father nearly kills everyone. But it’s also about dark financial worries. It’s about a man feeling like he failed as a provider and taking it out on his family. 

Poulterguist is about a house opening a portal to a horrific and hungry dimension. But it’s also about Suburban Sprawl and guilt. 

Quiet Apocalypse is about a demon trying to break free and cause the apocalypse. But it’s also about the fear of dying alone. Of having no one to leave behind a legacy for. 

I’ve been in a haunted house. And I bet you have too. If you’re fortunate enough to not have lived in one, you’ve visited one. It was the friend’s house where things got quiet when their mom came home from work. Or one that got way too loud. Maybe it was a family home after a funeral. 

Maybe it was just a place that didn’t feel right. It seems safe, but it doesn’t feel safe. Your instincts are screaming at you to run. To get the hell out of there despite no apparent danger. 

In my experience, it’s best to listen to those instincts. 

So we understand why cultures all over the world come back over and over to the haunted house story. But I want to go a step further and suggest that women in particular are drawn to reading and writing haunted house stories. We, along with children, tend to be the main characters and main victims of haunted house stories. 

It’s Eleanore who senses something wrong and eventually goes mad in Hill House. 

It’s Diana Freeling who insists to her husband that something’s wrong in the house, only to be dismissed until their daughter is sucked into the television. 

It’s Col Kennedy who has to convince her husband that there is something very wrong with the beautiful new house next door.

I think this is the case for a number of reasons. First, women historically spend more time at home than their spouses. Or, we at least spend more time caring for our homes and the people in them. So if the kids are talking to invisible playmates, we’re more likely to notice. If there’s blood dripping out of the ceiling, we’re probably the ones cleaning it up thinking it’s rust stains. 

At first. 

If our loved one is suddenly spending an uncomfortable amount of time with their axe collection or singing in a language we don’t recognize, we’ll probably be the ones to point it out. 

In addition to this, haunted house stories are cathartic to women. Consider how often in a horror movie the main character starts out trying like hell to convince someone, usually her partner, that something is wrong. Blood’s coming out of the faucets, there’s a spot in the back yard that’s never warm, bottles are popping and spilling with no one in the room. But no one is listening! No one else seems to see it all happen. It’s almost like they’re looking away at just the wrong time on purpose. Only to calmly and condecendingly explain the shape and color of the trees while missing the forest entirely. 

What else does that sound like to you? Maybe like trying to explain medical symptoms to your partner, or doctor? 

You just need to lose weight.

It’s the house settling.

You’re just getting older.

You didn’t hear a child screaming, it was just these old pipes. 

You’re overreacting.

You’re being histerical. 

Finally, I think women are most often main characters in haunted house stories because home is a place of guilt for us. We feel more responsible for our homes because we’re taught that we’re responsible. At least, I was. So if something is wrong with our house, it’s our fault. 

The dishes aren’t done. It doesn’t matter if we dirtied them, it’s still our fault. The laundry’s piling up, our fault. An ancient demom is cracking through the basement floor, our fault. 

Of course, as society changes so do the stories we tell. A great modern haunted house story is How To Sell A Haunted House by Grady Hendrix. The main character is acutally the one who needs convinced that something is wrong, and it’s her younger brother who does the convincing.

That book, by the way, is a great example of siblings being raised by the same people but very different parents. 

All of that being said, haunted house stories appeal to everyone. There isn’t a culture in the world that doesn’t have haunted house stories. The Himuro Mansion in Japan. The Wolfsegg Castle in Germany. Every community, neighborhood and village has a haunted house. I’m willing to bet our cave dwelling ancestors had certain caves they didn’t want to go into because they were jsut too creepy.

Finally, I would argue that haunted houses are more frightening than other supernatural elements because they are so incredibly intimate. If houses are alive, and as a witch I believe they are, they know us. They see us at our best and our worst. They see us in moments that we manage to hide from everyone else. And so if your home wanted to scare you, wanted to harm you, they’d know just how to do it. 

This is something that Sadie learns in Quiet Apocalypse. Allow me to read one final passage. 

 “Do you know where my mommy is?” the child asked. 

“I don’t know,” Sadie said. “What’s your name?” 

 The child didn’t respond. She just shook her head.

 “Where am I?” 

 Sadie swirled around. There was a little boy, standing in the middle of the main room. He looked terrified. 

 “Oh, it’s okay,” Sadie said. “Here, come over here. I’ll try to help you. I mean, I’m not really good with spirits, but I can-.” 

 “Mommy? Where am I, why can’t I see you?” 

 Another child was coming out of the bathroom. Then another. Suddenly there were two sitting on the futon, and three more standing in the middle of the room. They were all covered in blood. In their hair, on their shoes, on their clothes. It dripped onto the floor, smearing from their feet and dropping from toys or blankets they clutched.

 Sadie spun, looking around at all of the children. There were so many of them, and every moment there were more. Sage stood next to her, gasping out sharp, panicked barks. 

 “Sage, stop barking,” Sadie said. She whirled around again. “Please, calm down. I can help you, but I, I need a minute to think about what to do.” 

 They crowded towards her, reaching out with bloody hands. Crying out for her, reaching for her and pulling at her clothes. “Help, help us,” they cried. 

 “I’ll help you, I will,” Sadie said, but the children were pulling her down. 

 “Help us. You have to help us!” 

 Sadie couldn’t answer. She could barely breathe, drowning in the sea of bloody hands and crying screaming faces. She couldn’t see Sage anymore, couldn’t see anything. There were only the children, clawing at her. Killing her. 

Sadie is a school nurse. As I’m sure you can imagine, that carries an emotional burden. 

Now, unfortunately I don’t have any personal really good haunted house stories to share with you. Most of my experiences are subtle. I saw a shadowy figure out of the corner of my eye. I felt someone staring at me when there wasn’t anyone there. I found myself in a terrible mood, or unable to control my anxiety in certain parts of a house. This is all scary to live with but not overly interesting. And since you’ve all been listening to me ramble for a while now, it’s your turn. Tell us about your haunted house story in the comments below. 

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Your writing should look like your writing

I’m writing the third draft of a new project. I can’t tell you what it is yet, only that it’s a dark fantasy piece dedicated to Hekate.

As I’ve been working on this book, the same thought keeps coming up over and over. As I flesh out scenes. As I rewrite dialogue. As I sketch out brainstorming notes.

I keep thinking, “This isn’t the right way to do this. No one writes like this. This isn’t how it’s supposed to be done.”

I’m doing my best to quiet this thought. Because it’s getting in the way of what could be some of the best damned writing I’ve ever done.

Each writer has a specific voice. A certain feel to their work that is distinct, no matter the genre they write. King’s books feel the same from Danse Macabre all the way to Never Flinch. Kiersten White’s work feels the same no matter if she’s writing fantasy or horror. And a lot of the reasons why they feel so different are stylistic choices that, frankly, I might not have made. You might not have made them. I certainly don’t write with such gory detail as King, for instance. We have wildly different word choices, and I don’t feel the need to set every story I write in Main.

Your personal voice comes from five different elements. The first is your word choice.

Words. Writing nerds like us obsess over words. Word choice can change a scene from cozy to chilling. It can make a story inspiring or terrifying. Consider the difference between these two sentences.

“Sharon sauntered towards the door and slid it open.”

“Sharon stalked to the door and ripped it open.”

Both examples include Sharon opening a door. The first one feels sexy. The second is vaguely threatening.

In both, she might just eat the person on the other side alive.

Word choice is about the voice of your story. Dialog is the voice of your characters, and the second element of your writing voice. It helps build setting, build character. And it tells something about you as well.

Are you the sort of writer who does a lot of exposition in dialogue? Do you use it to give away clues? Do you tell us who your character is?

Characters in general are a big part of a writer’s voice. King, for example, used to write a lot about drunk men who were bad fathers. Then he wrote a lot of men trying to get and stay sober. And far too many of them are named Bill.

I tend to write characters who are irritated all the time. Who have a strong hand on their tempers, until they don’t. Sylvia Moreno-Garcia writes characters who are terrifyingly single-minded.

Then, there are descriptions. This is a place where your voice can truly come out. And a place where prose writers can indulge in a little poetry.

How you describe something shows us your voice. How long it takes you to describe something also does that.

Some writers I could mention could spend a little less time describing things if I’m being honest.

You might be wordy. You might write tight. All of this is part of your voice.

Finally, where you set your stories is a huge part of your voice.

I tend to write about communities big enough that you don’t know everyone, but not so big that you can get through Walmart without seeing a high school acquaintance you’d rather not. I probably do this because I’ve always lived in that sort of place. So that is how I understand the world to be. Even when I’m writing about spaceships with ghost dragons, this theme comes up.

Some people write about small southern towns. Some people write about dark, gothic places. Some people write about the Pacific Northwest like it’s the eeriest place in the world. Which I take personally, as a person who lives in the foothills of the Appalachian mountains.

Here’s the thing about your writer’s voice. It’s the most important thing to remember. You can recognize your voice. You can, and should, study other writers’ voices. But you really shouldn’t try to force your voice.

Who you are is going to come through in your writing. Where you live, how you were raised, who did the raising. How you see the world. It’s all going to come out, one way or another, in your work.

And that’s a good thing! That’s the whole point of art. Entertaining stories don’t stick with us as much as ones that make us feel something. And we make readers feel something when we share how we uniquely experience the world.

We don’t have to do that by writing memoirs or opinion pieces. We can write about whatever we want to. Werewolves, hockey players, dragon hunters. No matter what you choose to write, you should shine through. And you should never, ever feel like you need to copy another writer’s voice. First of all, you won’t be able to. And second of all, we need as many unique voices in the world as we can.

Paper Beats World is a labor of love. If you love what I do here, please consider liking and sharing this post and leaving a comment. You can also support me financially on Ko-fi.

Spooky season is coming, and it’s time for some creepy reads. Check out my horror novel Quiet Apocalypse, about a witch trapped in her apartment during a dark winter storm with a demon devoted to ending the world.

Or check out my horror short, The Man In The Woods. A man tries desperately to protect his granddaughter from the mysterious man in the woods. But his fear only grows when a new housing complex is built too close to the woods.

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The story remains

Please indulge me in a moment of nostalgia today. It’s a very special anniversary.

Eleven years ago today, I started writing Woven. After years of feeling stuck in my writing. Years of starting projects but never finishing. Years of shrugging and saying I was a writer, but never really writing. I took expensive bread from a coffee shop that isn’t there anymore to a park that still is. I fed the birds and prayed for a book idea that wouldn’t die before its first real breath.

A spell is just a prayer with extra steps. I believe this was the most successful spell I’ve ever cast.

Eleven years have passed. I have moved homes three times. (And am getting ready to move again, God help me.) The walls and roof that surround me have changed. The desk at which I sit, sipping copious cups of coffee and tea, has changed. I’ve written at a desk older than me, painted over countless times. I’ve written at coffee shops, laundromats, doctor’s offices, libraries and day jobs. I’ve written at a desk my husband made for me by hand. It’s actually the first piece of furniture I’ve ever owned that wasn’t second-hand, and that’s where I’m still writing right now.

The story has remained.

I’ve changed jobs then job titles. I’ve changed my last name.

My family has changed. It shrank, but then swelled again. I lost people I never thought I’d lose. Never thought I could survive losing.

I’ve found new people. A new family, a new place in the world to need others and be needed in.

The story has remained.

I’ve written other stories. Some published, some not. Some tucked away for ‘someday’. Every one of them owes their existence to Woven. Because if it wasn’t for the story about a boy who weaves visions and a girl who spins light, I never would have had the courage or knowledge to write anything else.

I stepped out of my twenties and into my thirties. Soon, I’ll move into my forties. My hair has started to show silver. My back hurts in fun new places.

And yet, this story remains.

I became a horror critic. Then the site folded. Woven was bought by a publisher and then dropped. I republished it. Then I published it wide, a thing I wouldn’t have been able to do if the publisher hadn’t dropped us.

The story, through it all, remains.

We’ve lived through a pandemic and at least two recessions. At least some of us have. We’ve seen wars start and start. And start. We’ve seen three presidents. Well, two presidents and one threat to our country.

The story, though, remains.

And at this point, I feel like I’m ending a long journey. With Falling From Grace going wide this Friday, I’ve done almost everything I can do with it until I can afford to make it an audiobook. (I’m working on it.) Unless I write another book in the same world, the story of Woven is at its inevitable end.

Except, of course, that there are new readers in the world every day. New people looking for new stories. And I don’t think that’s likely to change anytime soon.

So this story will remain. I’ll write others. I’ll share others. And we’ll all keep right on changing.

I am so glad you’re here to share the journey with me.

Falling From Grace is going wide on Friday!

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The End of Haunted MTL

The publishing world is ever changing. What was a thriving online market yesterday could well be bankrupt tomorrow. A publishing company that was an unquestioned pillar can crumble. A beloved author can seemingly go out of her way to destroy her reputation.

And a beloved horror review site can shutter.

Sadly, Haunted MTL is no more. And, I might as well rip this band-aid off now, there will not be another season of AA.

I might write the story in book form, if anyone is interested. I was certainly going somewhere with the story.

I started working for Haunted MTL in 2019. I’d already published several novels by this time, but this was something different. This was an actual writing job.

I loved my time writing for Haunted MTL. I met so many amazing writers and made friends with several. There is nothing better than writing friends. I got to see horror movies that I might never have seen. Some I wish had never assaulted my eyeballs, like Antichrist. Some I loved very much, like Silent Night and Pooka. I conducted live tweet events during American Horror Story and Dexter, and got to talk to fellow fans all around the world.

Being a critic was a fantastic experience. If you want to be a good writer, one important exercise is to dissect a piece of work that you have strong opinions about, good or bad, and consider why it either works or doesn’t work. As a critic, that was exactly what I did twice a week. And I even got paid for it.

I was also invited to participate in several charity anthologies, which is always great. We conducted storytelling events through the years, writing short stories together. Including several years of Christmas and holiday horrors.

We did podcasts. We did events. We once read A Christmas Carol together and posted it. It was a laugh.

It was too good, maybe, to last.

I will miss Haunted MTL. I will miss the sense of writing camaraderie. Of being on staff. Of being part of a team.

But even as I mourn, I know it’s time to move on. As I said at the top, the publishing world is ever changing. And so even as this spooky door closes, another will open.

If you find yourself in this sort of situation, I’m so sorry. But remember, setbacks like this don’t necessarily reflect on you. Sometimes projects don’t work. We are artists, and art is subjective. Sometimes we’re going to do our level best and still not succeed. All there is for us then is to dust ourselves off, have a little cry, and write another story.

Then another, and another.

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Starting Chains is going wide! Check out all the places it will be available here.

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The books that inspired me to write Woven

Writers are readers first. I have been honored to know and befriend many writers, and I have never met one who didn’t have a passion for books. Ask any of us about what we’re reading, or what our favorite books from childhood are, and watch our faces light up.

(I am currently reading Halloween Tree by Ray Bradbury. Tis the season.)

What we read shapes what we write. Because of course, we want to tell the sort of stories that we love to read.

There are exceptions, of course. I love some good historical fiction, memoirs and biographies of interesting people. But I have no desire to write one of those.

As a child, I loved fantasy, science fiction and horror. As an adult, that’s what I write. And there are three series in particular that inspired my fantasy series, Woven.

Likely, you’ve read these before. If you have, maybe you can see the inspiration already. If you haven’t read them, I cannot recommend them enough. Here now are the three series, what they taught me, and how they inspired me to write Woven.

Dragon Riders of Pern taught me to love dragons and see a place for myself in writing fantasy.

This might surprise you, but Dragon Riders of Pern was my first introduction to dragons. It shouldn’t surprise you, because this introduction took place when I was about five, being read to by my aunt. I immediately fell in love with the relationships between humans and dragons. And when I discovered dragons who were just as smart, if not smarter, than humans in the film Dragonheart, I was hooked.

Dragon Riders of Pern was also the first time I remember seeing a woman’s name on the cover of a book. At least, a fantasy book. I was fully aware that The Babysitter’s Club and Sweet Vally High were written by women. And I was already hooked on Ramona. I mean no offense to Francine Pascal, Ann M. Martin, and certainly not Beverly Cleary. They wrote great books that I loved as a child. But they always wrote about, well, children and teenagers. They wrote about the real world, and all the problems girls and boys got into. The people who wrote about robots and dragons and ghosts were, well, men. Stephen King, J.R Tolkien, R.L Stine, C.S Lewis. I loved them, but I had a hard time seeing myself among them. Anne McCaffrey showed me that I could belong in that world first.

Chronicles of Narnia taught me to write about faith.

Speaking of C.S. Lewis, I love him. I love the Chronicles of Narnia.

The story is fantastic, I cannot stress this enough. But it’s also faith-affirming.

Gently. And that is the important part here.

Chronicles of Narnia is not judgemental. It’s not the Left Behind series. It’s not one of the many books I read as an LDS child. It is a gentle story that teaches real morals about being a good person.

While Woven doesn’t have a strong religious component, it is a little bit about faith. Lenore specifically learns about celebrating your faith when it doesn’t celebrate you. She deconstructs and removes herself from the Church, but not the Creator.

Gee, wonder why I wrote about that.

Chronicles of Narnia gave me the inspiration to write about faith, as I experienced it, without worrying that I was going to be judgemental towards others.

Circle of Magic taught me to write about tactile magic

Finally, Tamora Pierce’s Circle of Magic was the biggest inspiration for Woven.

Pierce once said that she was inspired by her mother and sisters doing handcrafts. She saw magic in creating cloth from string. This is something I agree with. I knit and crochet, and that’s always felt like a very attainable magic.

Great, grand magic is loads of fun. It’s fun to read about people who wave a sword and bring lighting down from the sky. So I wrote that. But it’s also somehow comforting to imagine magic coming from such a simple act and powerful act.

Now it’s your turn. What books inspired your current WIP? Let us know in the comments.

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Nova, Chapter three

Wait, this isn’t the start of the story! If you need to catch up, start here.

And if you want to go all the way back to the start of Station 86, you can get book one for free here.

Michael, Earth

A military base was a great place to be in an apocalypse. Especially when it was a secret base, underground, and known to only a handful of people. The power rarely went out. It was well stocked with food, clean water, and weapons. Lots and lots of weapons.

It was a great place if one wanted to survive a war with armored monsters who just wanted to exterminate humanity and were pretty damn good at it.

It was not a great place to raise a handful of orphaned girls, as Michael was discovering.

Commander Dent, the woman in charge of the base and the leader of the IHP, had done little more than assign them a room to live in and tell Michael to keep the kids out of the way. That room was empty except for four bunk beds and the ugliest carpeting Michael had ever seen in his life. He supposed he should be grateful. Three teenagers, one little girl, and an old man weren’t of any use to Dent. He suspected that the only reason she hadn’t turned them away entirely was that there were so few humans left, it seemed vital to keep as many alive as possible.

They were the only five people in the base who weren’t members of the International Human Protection organization, a quasi-military multi-country organization that was established when things like militaries and countries still existed. They’d been established to keep the stations safe. They sure hadn’t been established to fight the Hollow Suits. Nothing had been.

Certainly Michael, now in his sixth decade, hadn’t any idea how to fight them. Which was why he instead was looking after the children he’d managed to save while traveling from England to New York. Children that, sadly, he had not yet taught to pick up after themselves. This was why he now found himself stalking their room, shoving clothes into a basket and grumbling.

There was a gentle knock at the door frame. He looked up fast, expecting it to be one of the kids and preparing to unload on whatever unfortunate kid it was.

Instead, it was Evelyn, looking at him with a raised eyebrow and a smile that was threatening to turn into a laugh.

She was a tall woman, solidly built with dark hair cut short. An IHP captain who’d been off-planet when the Hollow Suits attacked, she didn’t normally suffer from fits of the giggles. So perhaps Michael could be forgiven for taking this personally.

“You got something to say?” he asked.

“The girls are so busy with their lessons, they can’t clean up after themselves?” she asked. Her smooth, deep British accent felt even more sophisticated compared to his twang. He was fully aware that he sounded like some outdated country bumpkin cartoon character. Nothing about the two of them matched. Evelyn looked every inch the captain that she was, in a spotless uniform and boots. He was dressed, as he usually was, in a patchy sweater and old sneakers. Not to mention his old body. Still, they had helped each other save their people, and that was enough to make them family as far as he was concerned. She was one more adopted daughter.

“These girls apparently don’t own a stitch of clothes,” he muttered. “Anytime I send one of ‘um to clean up their stuff, it always belongs to everybody else, and she can’t possibly get her stuff before everyone else gets their stuff, and not a damn thing gets picked up until I do it. I tell you, it was so much easier with Godfrey.”

“Of course it was. He was a boy, not to mention an only child,” Evelyn said. “I think you men teach us to depend on you for all these domestic things.”

“Well it ain’t like I’m doing much else,” he muttered. “The girls are basically IHP cadets at this point. They’re with Alomb, going over the new Hollow Suit intel. Ain’t nobody asked me if I want to do that.”

The clothes now collected, Michael shoved one laundry basket under his arm. Evelyn grabbed the second before he could, and the two of them headed to the laundry room together.

“Nobody’s keeping anything from you. And honestly, it isn’t much to tell.”

“Enough that the girls are having a whole lesson about it,” Michael muttered. “But all I know is that Dent was shouting at us as we came in that they were aliens from the Andromeda Galaxy like it was the greatest news ever.”

They reached the laundry room and started loading clothes into empty machines. It wasn’t a busy part of the base just then, with one dryer making a solitary hum. It smelled of the harsh chemical soap that was all the base had.

Evelyn shut the lid of the washer and started it. “It kind of felt that way, didn’t it? I mean, the whole war we haven’t known anything about the Hollow Suits at all. Just that they were big, hulking suits of metal with nothing inside we could even try to reason with.”

“Don’t feel like any of that’s changed,” Michael said. “Ain’t we still hiding from them? Has anyone managed to do any damage to them?”

“No, but we know more now. They’re not machines. They’re sentient beings, like us, the Khloe, Ma’sheed, or Toth. And we know where they’re from. Dent has this theory that if we can communicate with the Andromeda Galaxy, we can find someone there who can call the Hollow Suits back. Or at least talk to us, tell us why they’re doing this.”

“So that’s what we’re doing now? Talking to aliens that may or may not be there in literally another galaxy? We might, in fact, be the last people on Earth alive, and we’re doing what? Yelling please stop hurting us into a void that might or might not have someone in it who might or might not understand us or even give a shit?”

Evelyn leaned against the machine and crossed her arms. “I’m starting to understand why no one’s taken the time to explain all of this to you.”

Michael’s sharp retort was interrupted when a lanky, blond young man came into the laundry. He gave the two of them worried looks. “Should I come back later?” he asked.

“No, of course not, Toby,” Evelyn said. “Michael, have you met Toby yet? He’s one of our new residents.”

“You’re one of those who were healed from the nanites, right?” Michael asked, reaching out to shake his hand. “How you feelin’ after that?”

“Alright mostly,” Toby said. “Some headaches. Most of us have been getting them. But, guess that’s to be expected.”

“Sure. Little metal bugs crawled around your brain, making you act like a zombie. I’m still surprised any of you are up walking around after that.”

Toby gave Evelyn a shy smile. “Thanks to you. I mean, thanks to the cure you brought back from the stations.”

“Glad we could do it,” Evelyn said.

Michael sat down in one of the uncomfortable chairs. The washing machine would take only minutes, there was no sense in going back to his room. Evelyn, to his surprise, sat down with him. “Don’t you have something important to do right now?” he asked.

“I am doing something important,” Evelyn said. “I’m checking in with you, Michael. You’re important.”

“You’re condescending,” he replied.

“No, I’m serious,” she said. “The girls depend on you. And those girls are our future. Dent was just saying the other day that the most important thing anyone in the base can be doing is taking care of those kids. If you’re right, and we are the last people on Earth, then the girls are the entirety of the next generation.”

“Oh God,” Michael muttered. “An entire generation that doesn’t know how to pick up their own clothes.”

Something crashed on the other side of the room. Toby, who’d been reaching into the wall-mounted washer for his clothes, had collapsed. Evelyn and Michael hurried over to check on him.

“I’m okay,” he said, as Evelyn helped him sit up. “Sorry, I just got a little dizzy.” He tried to stand up, but his head lolled to the side and he sat down hard again.

“Don’t try to get up just yet,” Michael said, kneeling next to the younger man. He reached out to steady him but stopped. Toby’s eyes were blood red.

“Hey, that don’t look healthy,” he said. “Evelyn, do you see this?”

Evelyn pulled a penlight from her breast pocket. She carefully used it to inspect Toby’s blood-colored eyes. “Probably a side effect of the nanites. Toby, when you’re feeling up to it, I’m going to take you to the medical ward. I want to get some scans of your head to see what’s causing this, okay?”

“Yeah,” Toby said. “I’m okay, let me just-.”

He tried to stand up and started to heave. Michael grabbed a nearby wastebasket, barely getting it in front of Toby’s face before he started puking. He looked up a few moments later, sheepishly muttering “Sorry.”

“It’s gonna happen,” Michael said, giving Toby a tentative pat on the back. “Better not to keep it in.”

Toby’s face changed, contorting with anger. He shoved Michael away. “Don’t talk to me like that. I’m not one of your fucking kids.”

“Woah, there’s no call for that,” Evelyn snapped.

Back over the bucket went Toby’s head for another round of heaving. When he again looked up his eyes were their normal shade of brown circled by white again. “I’m sorry,” he muttered. “Don’t know where that even came from.”

“Heat of the moment. Don’t even think about it,” Michael said.

Evelyn helped Toby to his feet. “Come on, I think you need to lie down at the infirmary for a bit. Get a nice nap in and a good cup of tea.”

“I don’t like tea,” Toby said, even as he slung his arm around Evelyn’s shoulder.

“Ah, don’t be silly,” Evelyn replied. “Everyone likes tea,”

Copyright © 2024 by Nicole C. Luttrell

All rights reserved.

No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

If you love the story and want to support Paper Beats World, you can do so on Ko-fi.

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Nova, Chapter Two

Wait up! This isn’t the start of the story. Click here to jump to the prologue.

And if you need to begin at the beginning of Station 86, click here to get book one for free.

Godfrey

Sennett collapsed. She’d been pulling so hard against Godfrey and Liam that they almost fell when that pressure gave up.

“Should one of us go with them?” Liam asked, nodding his head towards Russell and Candace. “Don’t seem like a good idea leaving them alone. Aren’t they both part of the Core?”

“Couldn’t hurt to keep an eye on them,” Godfrey replied. Liam nodded and trotted after the two.

Godfrey scooped Sennett up and took her inside. Owen trailed after him.

Mason, April, and Bailey were in the living room, clearly trying to look like they hadn’t been doing their best to listen through the front door. Mason jumped when the door opened, and turned the wall screen on to a cartoon. “What happened?” he asked, as Godfrey laid Sennett on the couch. “Did Candace hit her?”

“No,” Godfrey said. “Sennett tried to attack that woman, and passed out with one of her headaches.”

“Shit,” Mason said. “I don’t guess there’s any sense in taking her to the hospital unless she doesn’t wake up soon. The only thing they did last time was hook her up to an IV. I can do that.”

“What’s the matter with her?” April asked. She picked up Bailey and held him tight. If the dog had been flesh and blood, instead of a metal terrier, she might have been constricting the poor thing.

“She just got too excited,” Godfrey said. “It’s because of those nanites that were in her brain, probably.”

“Yeah,” Mason said. He placed two fingers on Sennett’s throat. “Yeah, that’s probably it. I’ll get her down to the lab once she wakes up, do some scans. Don’t worry, April. Watch your cartoons, we’ll just let your mom rest for now.”

April curled up on an armchair, still clutching Bailey. She kept one eye on her mother and one eye on the screen. It was clear that she wasn’t as comforted by the grownups as they would have liked.

Soon, though, Sennett woke. Godfrey looked closely at her eyes as soon as she opened them and was thankful to see that they’d returned to their usual brown.

“What are you doing?” Sennett asked, sitting up and pulling her face away from his.

“Just checking,” Godfrey said.

“Can you describe how you felt back there?” Mason asked.

“How do you think I felt?” she snapped.

“I mean physically,” he replied. “Clearly how you were feeling emotionally was homicidal.”

Godfrey moved out of the way so Mason could sit next to Sennett. Mason carefully set his fingertips against her chin, moving her head up and down, before inspecting her eyes. “Any pain now?” he asked.

“Just a lingering headache,” she said. “But when the attack started, I had this real sharp pain right behind my eyes.”

Sennett glanced towards April, who appeared to be consumed by her cartoon. In a whisper, she said, “I think I really would have killed Candace if I could have reached her. I honestly think I would have just ripped her apart.”

Godfrey nodded. “It sure as hell looked like that was the plan.”

“I want you to come down to the lab so I can run some tests,” Mason said. “I don’t think those nanites are as gone as we thought they were. And I’m going to get ahold of the station you were on when you got infected and see if anyone else is continuing to have symptoms. What station was it?”

“Sixteen,” Sennett said.

Suddenly April shrieked. “Look!” She pointed at the wall screen. “Look, there’s somebody there!”

“What?” Godfrey asked. The adults all turned, but there was nothing on the screen but colorful cartoon characters dancing to some song. “What is it, Little Bit?”

“There was somebody on the screen, looking at me!” April screamed.

Mason turned the screen off. Sennett rose from the couch to kneel next to April’s chair. “Calm down, it’s okay.”

“No, no somebody was watching me. An old man,” April sobbed.

“I didn’t see anything,” Owen said.

“Me either,” Godfrey agreed. “April, it was probably just a reflection or something.”

“Come on,” Sennett said, holding her hand out. “Well go into the kitchen and get some hot chocolate. Then I think we both need a long nap.”

“But he was there!” April said.

“I know,” Sennett said. “Come on, now. The screenman can’t see you in the kitchen.”

“I mean, there is the table screen,” Owen said. Mason shoved him.

Godfrey and Mason were in the kitchen when Russell and Liam returned. Russell sat down hard at the table. Liam went to the replicator and pulled up a few beers. After passing them around, he asked, “Where are the girls?”

“Sleeping in Sennett’s room,” Godfrey said. “Owen’s taking a nap on the couch. I think I’m going to invite him to stay with me at my place when he gets up.”

“You don’t want to stay here?” Mason asked.

“Nah, you guys have enough people here as it is,” Godfrey said. “No sense adding two more when I have a perfectly fine house that’s been sitting empty.”

Mason patted Godfrey’s hand. “You don’t have to go back. It can’t be easy, with Ki gone.”

“Well, I have to get used to it,” Godfrey said. He took a long drink. “I’m a grown man. I can’t spend the rest of my life sleeping on my friend’s couch because I’m sad or lonely or whatever.”

“Have you even talked to her since she left?” Liam asked.

“No,” Godfrey said.

“Well, maybe that’s something you ought to think about,” Liam said.

Godfrey gave Liam a dark look. “Ki’s on Khloe with her family. She’s safer there than she would be here, with the Hollow Suits tearing through the stations. I’m not going to ask her to come back just to put her in danger.”

“Oh yeah,” Liam muttered, taking another drink. “Hadn’t thought about them.”

“Anyway, what happened with Candace?” Mason asked. “Did she get around to telling you whatever it was she wanted to say?”

Liam snorted. “No. She barely strung two words together on the transit down to the first level. Then, she refused to leave the station. She got a motel room and said she was going to stay right here until she could tell Sen what she came to tell her. Which is gonna be kind of hard, since she loses all her words every time she tries to talk about it.”

Russell had been silent through all of this. He hadn’t taken a drink of his beer, or done more than stare at the kitchen wall. Now, he spoke. “It’s something to do with The Core, then. It has to be. She’s come to tell Sennett something about us, and her loyalty chip activated.”

Godfrey exchanged glances with Mason and Liam. “And what in the hell is a loyalty chip?” he asked.

“Well, what does it sound like?” Russell snorted. “It’s a failsafe, in case an agent decides to betray us. Before anything can be divulged, the chip suspends the frontal lobe. If the agent keeps trying to talk, it’ll eventually kill them.”

When he realized the others were looking at him with horror, he said, “We don’t use them anymore. Candace must still have one from before she went to prison. I thought they were all deactivated. Mom-.”

He stopped and took a long drink. “Mom said she deactivated all of them.”

Mason shook his head. He started tapping on the table screen, pulling up pages of blueprints that were too complex for Godfrey to recognize. “I’ve heard of those before. I might be able to do something about it, but I’ll need to do some research.”

“Do you have any idea what it might be?” Godfrey added. “You know her, right?”

Russell shook his head. Finally, he drained his bottle. “I knew a girl when I was a boy. I don’t know who this woman is. And I can’t imagine what could make her come to Sennett for anything. Candace was so devoted to Mom, she’d have done anything for her.”

“Right,” Mason said. “Maven’s your mom. So, you probably wouldn’t tell us what she was planning.”

“If I knew of some grand plan, I’d tell you. The Hollow Suits have changed everything. Until they’re no longer a threat, we can’t waste energy worrying about the aliens.”

“The aliens aren’t anything you’ve got to worry about to start with,” Godfrey growled. “Don’t forget that my wife is Khloe. April’s half Khloe.”

“Yeah,” Russell said. “But she’s half human, too. Anyway, I need to talk to Mom about this. Whatever she’s planning, we don’t have time for it. Once I get word to her, The Core will turn its attention to the Hollow Suits.”

Liam looked like he had something to say to that. But instead, he gave Russell a large smile, that showed every one of his teeth and didn’t come close to reaching his eyes. “I think I need another beer. Anyone else want one?”

Godfrey hadn’t been in his own house in over a month. He lived a level below Sennett, in a not-as-wealthy but still nice neighborhood. There weren’t any false lawns here like Sennett had. No space between the houses. There were modest homes and walkways, with a park near the transit station. With the orange glow overhead, it almost felt like a suburb back on Earth.

Godfrey’s little two-bedroom house, wedged between others just like it, was much smaller than Sennett’s. And yet it felt immense. It was cold, and he couldn’t smell anything. The house hadn’t smelled so much like anything since the day he’d moved in.

He’d been alone then, too. Just a cook, brand new to the station. But the most beautiful woman had grinned at him when he made her traditional Earth food, as she called it. So maybe he wasn’t going to regret this move like his dad kept insisting he would.

Godfrey shook his head. That line of thinking wasn’t going to get him anywhere he wanted to be.

Owen yawned. “Even with that nap at Sennett’s place, I’m exhausted,” he said.

“We don’t have a spare guest room,” Godfrey said. “My wife used it for a home office, so there’s no bed or anything. But the living room couch pulls out.”

“Thanks,” Owen said. He sat down hard on the couch. “This wasn’t exactly the welcome I thought we’d get here. What with that crazy woman and all.”

“It’s always something here,” Godfrey said.

Owen shrugged. Then he laid down on the couch without bothering with the pull-out feature. “It’s always something everywhere.”

Soon enough, he was fast asleep.

Godfrey was so tired that he ached. But he wasn’t ready yet to go into his bedroom. Instead, he went to the kitchen. The simulator battery was fresh, having been purchased sometime before Ki left and he’d gone on an extended sleepover. He made himself a cup of coffee. Then, he began simulating yeast, flour, and salt. When in doubt, bake. It was a motto that had served him well so far, and it didn’t seem like the time to abandon it now.

When he took his wrist pad off to protect it from the dough, he glanced at the screen for the first time since they’d arrived home.

Godfrey had never regretted moving to Station 86. He had, however, regretted running for a seat on the council. Even though he’d retired, no one seemed to have taken notice. Especially Howard and Joy, who were supposed to now be the only council members.

He had no intention of responding to any messages from Joy or Howard, no matter how much help they were asking for. But there were no messages for him to smugly ignore. He was almost disappointed.

While the dough was proofing, Godfrey sat at the kitchen table and drank his coffee. Out of habit, he pulled up the news on the table screen. He scrolled through headlines, not reading the articles attached.

Hollow Suit sighting on Level Four proven to be a hoax

Simulator energy shortage continues, people urged to ration use

Protest on Level One turns violent, five injured

Police Commissioner Schultz urges patience from citizens

Godfrey closed the news feed. The people of Station 86 weren’t taking the news of the Hollow Suits well. Of course, he understood. The station had lived through political assassinations, terrorist attacks, AI dogs harvesting them for their organs, and an abrupt change in their governing structure, all in the past year. He, Godfrey, hadn’t been the only one to lose a spouse. Sennett hadn’t been the only one to lose a loved one, though not many had seen their mother blown up in front of the whole damn station. The whole population was likely feeling exactly how he was feeling. Exhausted, on a razor’s edge, and scared. So of course people were reporting false Hollow Suit sightings. Of course, protests were getting out of control. And of course, Commissioner Schultz, Sennett’s serene and level-headed boss, was urging everyone to just calm the hell down.

Godfrey sighed. If he could do something to help, he probably should. He tapped on the table screen again and called Howard.

The line rang for longer than normal, but at last, he saw Howard’s face. He was a thin man, with a neat beard and nearly always wore a politician’s smile. That smile looked genuine though, when Howard saw Godfrey. “Hey, man, what’s up? When did you get back?”

“Just a couple hours ago,” Godfrey said. “Surprised you didn’t know.”

“Well, somebody’s watching the incoming ships, but it’s not me,” Howard chuckled.

Godfrey nodded. “Yeah, looks like you and Joy must be busy enough.”

“We’ve been hopping, that’s for sure,” Howard agreed. “Speaking of which, I can’t really talk right now. But let’s get together in a couple of days. I know Joy and I are gonna need to hear about what went down on Station Central first hand.”

“Yeah, it was like a war zone,” Godfrey said.

“No doubt, no doubt,” Howard said. “But listen, I’d better let you go for now. You get some rest, and we’ll talk in a few days.”

“Oh,” Godfrey said. “Alright.”

“I’m glad to see you home, Godfrey. I was a little worried you weren’t coming back from this one. See you soon.”

And before Godfrey could even respond, Howard had closed the video.

Godfrey sat back in his chair and picked up his coffee cup. Having been dismissed so abruptly, he had nothing to distract him from his worries except for rising bread dough.

Copyright © 2004 by Nicole C. Luttrell

All rights reserved.

No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

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Nova, Chapter One

Hold on! This isn’t the start of the story. To go back to the prolog, click here.

To begin at the start of Station 86, click here to get book one for free.

Sennett

Station 86, six years before our story takes place.

Sennett expected Lo to be annoyed with her, but instead, he laughed. “I thought you said you wanted frozen yogurt. Isn’t that the whole reason we came down here?” He was holding two dishes in his hands, his lovely crystal-like hands. She didn’t take one.

The overhead lights on the station were dimming, it must be after six. Some people who’d been to Earth said it looked like something they called twilight. The colors shifted from yellow-white to blues and purples. Lo looked so beautiful in that light. His broad, strong shoulders shook as he laughed at her disdain. His rose-pink complexion was somehow a richer hue when he laughed. His wide nose wrinkled, and he seemed to almost glow.

“Yeah, but I wanted it from Harlequin’s frozen yogurt,” she said. “They’re the only ones that don’t have that weird aftertaste.”

Lo’s face fell. “Harlequin’s is on the other side of the level,” he said. “It’s the farthest one from the transit station.”

Sennett put a hand on her growing belly. “I cannot control these cravings,” she said. “Your child has a discerning pallet already.”

“Honey, it’s been such a long day,” he said.

She sighed and took one of the paper bowls from him. “Alright, maybe this will hold them over.”

Lo put his arm over her shoulder, and they started walking toward the transit. The market level was as busy as it ever was in the evening. People stopped by after work for things that just couldn’t wait. Shops were closing down, and the people who worked in them were heading in the same direction as Lo and Sennett. People were coming the opposite way to start evening shifts at overnight shops.

Sennett ate a spoonful of her yogurt, then leaned against Lo. “What do Khloe crave when they’re pregnant?”

“That’s not how things work with Khloe,” he said. “We don’t really do the whole pregnancy thing.”

“Guess that’s why you were so confused when I was trying to explain it to you,” Sennett said.

He laughed again, and it made her smile. His laugh was another reason to love him. It was deep and loud and vibrated through his whole body.

“That was a surprise. But, you are always full of surprises,” he said.

The crowd around them thinned as they drew closer to the transit station. A train was just pulling away, taking those who had already been waiting. So the two of them had the platform to themselves.

Sennett sat down on a bench and applied herself to her yogurt. Lo stood just at the safety line, watching down the tube for the train to arrive. “You in a rush to get home?” Sennett asked.

He turned towards her, about to answer.

Then there was a sound that didn’t belong on the platform. Didn’t belong anywhere anymore. It was a sound from another time. Sennett didn’t recognize it, had never heard anything like it before. It was loud, so immensely loud, and sharp. Sennett’s ears rang. She dropped the paper cup on the ground to cover them. Then she looked back at Lo.

He didn’t have part of his face anymore. What remained was ragged, bloody, almost as though something had reached out and ripped half of it away. He fell backward, onto the transit track.

Someone was running away. Sennett saw a woman in a denim jacket with brown hair. She didn’t have time to do anything about that. Instead, she went to the edge of the platform. There wasn’t any way for her to get down to where Lo was lying. He wasn’t moving. His glow was gone. “Help!” she screamed. “Someone, help!”

Sennett didn’t find out until later that the sound she’d heard was a gunshot.

Now

The brown hair Sennett remembered was longer. It was pulled back in a dirty bun. The denim jacket had been replaced with an oversized grey sweater that looked like she’d slept in. The woman standing in front of her was a mess. Of course that wasn’t enough for her to mistake Candace sitting on her front step, with a beat-up backpack next to her.

Candace stood up when she saw Sennett, eyes downcast. “Um,” she said.

Sennett froze, still as glass. If she’d been alone, maybe she’d have killed the woman who had no business being here, not at her house and not on this station. But she wasn’t alone. Her family, the people she cared about were around her. Her brothers were there, Mason and Russell. She and Russell share the same dark complexion, though his hair was lighter than her black braids. Mason, her adopted brother, was paler than normal. Godfrey was there, almost as good as a brother, his dark brown curls completely unmanaged after their escape from Station Central. Liam was there. He was tall enough to see above all of them, with reddish-blond hair. And Sennett didn’t want Candace anywhere near this man she was only starting to love.

Finally, April was there. April, the baby who’d been nestled under Sennett’s heart while this woman killed her father in cold blood. For no other reason but that he was a Khloe and she, Candace, had been ordered to do it. April, who had the same pink complexion as her father, with wild hair that she got from Sennett.

“Mason,” Sennett said, “take April inside through the back door.”

“Mommy, what’s going on?” April asked.

“Come on,” Mason said. He picked the child up and hurried past Candace, not even looking at her. April’s AI terrier Bailey trotted after them.

Sennett was still too frozen to speak, but her brother Russell wasn’t. “Candace, what in God’s name are you doing here?” Russell asked.

Of course, he knew her. They’d been raised in the same terrorist group, The Core. He probably knew Candace better than he knew Sennett.

“I, um,” Candace said. “I tried to message you, Sennett. I didn’t get any answer.”

“That’s because I didn’t send one,” Sennett snapped.

“Wait, this is Candace?” Godfrey asked. He put a hand on Sennett’s shoulder. Whether it was to give his best friend comfort or to hold her back was unclear.

“Sorry, who’s this?” Owen asked. It was maybe the longest sentence he’d spoken since Station Central, his home, had been destroyed.

“Someone who really shouldn’t be here,” Godfrey said.

“If you’re here to offer some sort of apology, you can shove it up your ass,” Sennett said. “I don’t want to hear it, and you don’t deserve forgiveness.”

“No,” Candace said. “I mean, you deserve an apology. You deserve a lot more than that.”

“She deserves to live the rest of her life without having to think about you,” Liam said. “So why don’t you take off now.”

“I, I will,” Candace said. “But Sennett, I have to tell you something. It’s important, or I wouldn’t be here. Everyone here in Station 86 is in danger. I came to warn you.”

“Us being in danger isn’t exactly new,” Godfrey said. “Is this about the Hollow Suits? We know about them already.”

“The what?” Candace asked. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what that is. But this is-.”

She stopped. She put a hand to her head, as her eyes glazed over. Then, she sat down again on the step, hard.

Pain engulfed Sennett’s head. She thought she might fall like Candace had, but instead, she lunged for the other woman. Liam and Godfrey together barely held her back as she reached, screaming and clawing for Candace. She needed to get her, to grab her and rip into her flesh with nails and teeth.

Russell yanked Candace up, and shook her, hard. Candace’s head flopped around until she seemed to come back to the present. When she saw Sennett reaching for her, she pulled away as though she’d seen a monster. “What’s the matter with your eyes!” she cried.

“Maybe you should get the hell out of here!” Liam yelled. “You’re making it worse, not better.”

Sennett didn’t see Russell hustle Candace off. She only saw red, until she only saw black.

Copyright © 2024 by Nicole C. Luttrell

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