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In eighteen days, I release my third book, a novella titled, For You, Rowena. I’m honored to announce that Allane Sinclair has yet again created a cover that encompasses a universe I’ve imagined and put to paper. I couldn’t ask for a better collaborator than Allane. As always, I hope my words serve justice to the emotions that scream from her artwork. Allane Sinclair is the real deal, folks. She pours every bit of her soul into her work, and it shows.

For You, Rowena, at its core, is about self-preservation, true love, and the road a person might travel to claim that love as their own, despite the obstacles; it’s about abusive relationships, self-exploration, redemption, and revenge.

For You, Rowena is not written in the narrative style of Magpie in August. Though two different animals, I hope that those who’ve read Magpie will recognize both the strengths and vulnerabilities I’ve instilled into the main women characters of Rowena.

For You, Rowena is scheduled for release on 31 August, 2018 in paperback and Kindle format via Amazon.  Pre-sale to be announced.

 

 

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Herald Saw Her Ending  

11 June, 2017—Saturday

Herald was lounging in the grand bay window that overlooked the flower garden when the end came calling. Curled up on the yellow seat cushions amongst a few magazines, he’d been surveying the backyard through drowsy eyes. He was a keen hunter once, ages ago in his youth. Still, olden as he’d grown, Herald could sometimes sense a warm-blooded body stirring someplace it oughtn’t be, or catch the glimpse of something flitting, and his heart would beat with familiar eagerness.

On this day, it was a peculiar scent drifting into the kitchen that perked his attention; he squinted in aversion, and noticed the glint of sunbeams bouncing off serrated steel. Herald maneuvered his arthritic body into a crouch, and stared wildly through the window screen. The woman he loved was outside in the garden barely three feet away from him, and she smelled like the earth she’d been digging. Down upon her hands and knees, she was overshadowed by someone Herald had not long forgotten.

He couldn’t comprehend what it was that he was watching; his woman and the caller struggled against one another for just a moment. Then the tang of her escaping blood filled Herald’s nostrils, provoking a rumble that emerged from the pit of his chest. His growling went unnoticed, and all was still in the garden for an immeasurable space of time. He remained in the window seat, round-eyed, and vibrating with tension. When at last the backyard   darkened, and the bats began to fly, the killer rose up from the rose bed, and kicked the face that had been made silent. Herald cussed through the window screen like a sentry willing to defend his castle. But when the sound of frenetic footfall entered the house, grey Herald fled from the window seat, and took refuge inside a kitchen cupboard—the one that stored his food.

Click, clack! Click, clack! Click, clack! Herald recognized the sound. Click, clack! Click, clack!

“I can never unknow you,” the intruder mocked.

Those hollow words were the last human noises that Herald would hear for two desolate days. And then, the screaming would begin.

© Kindra M. Austin

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I’ll never forget the sight of you, dead in the garden; I couldn’t look away from your body. The blood, and the bugs crawling all over you. The blackbirds eating you up. My only love, carrion. You were the one person on this earth who knew where I lived and breathed. What am I supposed to do without you?

Never have I ever believed in Heaven, but just now, I’m wishing Heaven were real, if only to know the memories of our life together don’t belong to me alone.

But does an unbound soul even keep memories? Silly to believe so, isn’t it?

I remember our first date—a picnic out at the gravel pits. It was my sixteenth birthday. You kissed me at sunset with sticky lips underneath the pink June sky—my first French kiss. Your tongue tasted like golden wine coolers and cheap menthol cigarettes. You kissed me, and it was the beginning of everything.

© Kindra M. Austin

June 3, 2015: Yay! My novel is finished! Who’s the boss? I’m the fucking BOSS!

June 4, 2015: You know…I just really feel like there’s something missing. I’m better than this. I can do better. I will do better. Aah, fuuuhh…I’m not fucking done!  (pulls hair out and throws wads of auburn at the monitor)

June 5-September 1, 2015: You get it, girl. YAAASSS! You know what you’re all about. NICE! 

September 2, 2015: (sends file to author friend, and friend says the manuscript is not finished) Whaaaht? The fuck do you know, anyway?! YOU’RE A COMEDY WRITER!!! (has daughter read entire manuscript, and daughter cries, it’s so good) YAAASSS! I made my daughter cry! Mission accomplished.

September 3, 2015: I’ve been non-stop with my novel. I need fresh perspective.

January 1, 2016: I am absolutely in love with my novel. I’m ready to move forward.

Since January, I have been writing personalized query letters and synopses to agents, researching and submitting to small presses (one of which requested my full manuscript), and writing my next masterpiece. Writing requires patience, and working toward publication requires even more so. People like my mother have this idea that I should have already been published. Like, “Kindra, you have a book finished, why is it taking so long?” Then I have to get real with her, and sometimes realness bores her, so she only pretends to listen.

Sometimes I just want to shake her. Fucking duh, Mom! Get a fucking clue.

Mom doesn’t like the f word. She thinks I swear too much. Maybe that’s the reason she stops listening to me so often. Ha!