Rachel Thompson

Jack Canon's American Destiny

Tuesday, July 16, 2013

Orangeberry Book of the Day – Untethered by Katie Hayoz


October 28th

I’m stuck in this body. And I can’t get out.

I stare at my arms. These arms. They’re not mine, but I’m wearing them. They’re thick and muscular and covered in hair. The veins run like rope down the insides.

I squeeze my eyes shut for the hundredth time, hoping that when I open them, I’ll look down and see my own thin arms. My own delicate veins.

I don’t.

Oh, God, do I need help. I need help. Now.

I stand and my head spins. Grabbing onto the desk, I wait for the dizziness to pass. Wait for my head to clear. It doesn’t happen.

I look from the desk to the bed to the floor to the walls and see where I am. Clarity won’t come. Can’t come. Because I’m not where I’m supposed to be.

My eyes travel to the mirror and the face staring back in terror. “Please,” I say. The face says it back, but sloppily. Like a drunk. “Please,” I beg again. “Where are you?” This time the words feel formed. This time my lips, his lips, work the way I expect them to. Or close to it.

But there’s no response.

I lift a hand. Take a step. My movements are staccato. Jerky. Clumsy. Like electrodes are flexing these muscles. Not me. Everything about this body is heavy and long. I take another step forward and it’s smoother, but I’m not used to the bulk of this body.

And I don’t want to get used to it.

I want out. Of him. Of here.


August: Life As Usual (yeah, right)

“Rise and shine, Sylvie,” Dr. Hong says, his voice full of forced cheer. “PSG’s done. You have a couple hours of free time before the MSLT. Go crazy.” I open my eyes and the first thing I see is the bramble of silver hairs sticking out of his nose. Note to self: Buy Dr. Hong nose hair clippers for Christmas.

He helps me sit up and I look down at myself, feeling like something out of a horror movie. Sticky pads with wires dot my legs and chest. I can’t see the ones above shoulder height, but their glue makes my chin, forehead and the areas around my ears and eyes itch. A heavy ponytail of wires cascades down my back and leads to a machine on my left. Probes tickle my nostrils.

Doc rearranges things and unhooks me so I’m able to walk around. I almost thank him, but catch myself before I do. I’m here because he doesn’t believe me. He’s brought me here to prove himself right. As with all the other tests I’ve taken.

But so far, he hasn’t proven anything. It drives him nuts.

It drives me nuts, too.

I go to the window and open the blinds. Outside, the sun is bright. Another stifling summer day in Wisconsin. Outside, I know the air sticks to your skin like Saran-Wrap and feels thick as cotton wool. I can almost smell the fresh-cut grass, the acrid scent of blacktop burning.

But here, in the lab, it stinks like antiseptic. And it’s dry and cool. The perfect sleeping temperature. That’s what I’m here to do: sleep. It’s the last weekend before school starts, and while everyone else is tanning on the sand, I’m snoozing in a sleep lab.

Talk about social suicide.

Dr. Hong writes something on my chart. “I’m turning you over to the team,” he says. “I think these tests will help us figure it out, Sylvie.” When I don’t respond, he goes on. “You know, the cataplexy – that’s where you have the sudden loss of muscle tone.  Then the sleep paralysis ... ” Here he looks up from the chart and directly into my eyes. “And, of course, the hallucinations.”

Of course. The hallucinations. I stare back at him without blinking. He breaks the gaze first and I feel a ridiculous sense of victory.

They’re not hallucinations.  That’s what bothers me the most, what scares me and pisses me off:  Dr. Hong insists it’s all make-believe.

“Your mother’s worried about you.” Dr. Hong’s voice is accusing. Like I’ve been giving my mom problems on purpose. If there’s one thing I don’t want, it’s to make my mom worry more.

“There haven’t been any more incidents,” I say.

Dr. Hong narrows his dark eyes at me. I know he doesn’t believe me. He never believes me. I might actually be offended – if I were telling the truth.

“Well, that’s wonderful, then. But with all that’s going on–”

“I’m doing fine. Really.” No need for him to play shrink any longer.

He’s silent a moment. Then he says, “Okay, Sylvie.”

“Everything’s set for school?” It’s a yearly ritual. Tests, tests, and more tests. Then the paper that declares me fit to fester in the classrooms of my high school.

“Sure. We don’t need these results to know that. I’ll contact St. Anthony’s and let them know everything’s in order for your –” he picks up my chart and looks at it again “—junior year.” He sticks out his hand and I shake it unenthusiastically.

“I’m sure school will be a lot of fun. You must have the boys lined up.” His eyes crinkle as he tries a smile.

“The only boys lining up are those who are trying to get away,” I say.

It wasn’t a joke, but Dr. Hong looks at me and laughs loudly. He throws his head back and I get a direct view up his nostrils.

Note to self: Forget the nose hair clippers. Buy the guy a weed whacker.


Buy Now @ Amazon & Smashwords

Genre – YA Paranormal / Coming of Age

Rating – PG13

More details about the author & the book

Connect with Katie Hayoz on Facebook & Twitter

Website http://www.katiehayoz.com/

Julie Farley – My Reading & Writing Inspiration

My Reading and Writing Inspiration

by Julie Farley

Reading was my escape as a child.  My parents got a divorce when I was in second grade and I guess I used to get lost in a book to escape my changing family landscape.  I started with E.B. White books, moved onto Beverly Cleary and then Judy Blume.  I devoured each and every book the author had written.  As I got older, I even “borrowed” my mom’s Danielle Steele books when she wasn’t looking.

I loved living in another world for a short time while I turned the pages.  I loved the feel and smell of a library book and my library card was the coolest thing I ever owned.

In between books, I started to write.  First, it was a lot of simple diary entries like

Dear Diary,

I can’t believe so and so was so mean to me today at recess.  I am not walking to school with her tomorrow. 



My issues got bigger as my life went on.  Most of my diaries focused on boys and random crushes.  But they also talked about my dad and my very tenuous relationship with him.  Then I branched out into poetry as my feelings got more complex.  I found as a young girl, words were the only way I could make sense of my life and my feelings.

When I was in ninth grade, my English teacher asked us to write a fairy tale.  It was the only high school writing assignment that I can remember and that I still have.  I wrote and illustrated a tale and received an A++ on it.  My dad kept it and I was lucky enough to find it two and a half years ago when I was going through his things after he died.

Finding that fairy tale was the sign that I needed that told me to keep on writing.  My dad was my biggest cheerleader where my writing was concerned.  Our relationship had its ups and downs but we were very close during his last few years.  He made it no secret that I should write.  I think he was giving me one of his dreams that he never saw to fruition but it fit because writing had been my passion for decades already.

When he died, I started my blog. And I started work on my first novel.  His death unleashed something in me, an honesty I didn’t know existed before.  Writing in a public forum is scary and overwhelming but the rewards have outweighed the drawbacks.   My kids enjoy it…sometimes.  After every crazy thing that takes place in our family, someone says, “Are you going to blog about that Mom?” Chances are pretty high the answer is yes.

When I published my first book last month, it hurt that my dad would never hold it in his hands.  But I have to believe that he is out there smiling down on me and somehow reading my words.

Buy Now @ Amazon

Genre – Contemporary Romance

Rating – PG13

More details about the author

Connect with Julie Farley on Facebook & Twitter

Website http://www.juliefarley.com/