About the Book:
Seventeen-year-old Samantha has mastered the art of manipulation, but she only practices the skill on herself.
Sam’s life has been a series of the universe crapping over her desires. When she learns Ryan is waiting behind the thick forest that leads to this city, she’s more than skeptical. When you have nothing left, you accept scraps. VOLT is Sam’s scraps.
Except, Ryan isn’t where he’s supposed to be. VOLT’s promise of a sweet reunion appears as likely as being tied to a hog and dragged around the moon.
Eighteen-year-old, Joe, is an egotistical, whiny Momma’s boy. He has a knack for verbally eviscerating those around him. That’s Sam’s evaluation of him when she meets him in VOLT. He lost his mother months ago and comes to VOLT often. Because of his knowledge of the city, his mother makes him Sam’s official guide to find Ryan.
Fifteen-year old Ferris has a borderline personality disorder. Several years ago, he lost his mother also. He’s been in VOLT the longest and might be a great addition to aid them in finding Ryan. Or stop them from killing each other. He just needs to remember who he is – which seems difficult.
Finding Ryan is Sam’s last effort to reconnect to a life teetering by a string with an anvil attached. She must decide between the living and the dead, and if she were keeping tally, she’d be closer to a corpse than a teenager.
Read an Excerpt from V.O.L.T - Village of Lost Things
Patience isn’t a virtue I possess.
Telling the truth is also questionable. But I attempt both on occasion.
Ryan called earlier to say he’d received letters from his two top schools. He’s bringing them by so we can open them together as soon as his shift ends at the car wash.
I grab my cell and hit the backlight. It’s five-thirty. His shift was over three hours ago. I punch the phone back to its spot on the mahogany end table. I’d call him again but it goes straight to voicemail, and torture’s not my thing.
I plop on our massive sectional in the family room and pretend to watch TV, my attempt at drawing my mind away from the letters and the threat of loneliness they represent. The last time Mom checked in on me, I wasn’t able to tell her what I was watching, though. Glancing at the TV now, a slender man with a ridiculously wide-brimmed cover treads across a desert road. It’s a western, I guess, which is preposterous. I’d never watch a western.
Like a fish caught in a net, I squirm, uncomfortable in my true skin. An idle mind combined with me is prime territory for trouble. I’ve got to move around—keep busy—or I’ll fall prey to the crap that gets trapped in my head.
With my long legs, I pace from the black sofa to the bay window overlooking the front of our house. I peer out for the tenth time in the span of a few minutes.
My gaze travels to the portly clouds and not the driveway. I promptly pull my eyes down and refocus my attention on finding out why Ryan has gone MIA. The driveway…you’re looking for Ryan in the driveway.
Our lawn is bare and in need of watering—dying from lack of nutrients and care. Weeds suffocate the delicate fuchsia flowers that once blossomed like proud depictions of the beauty inside the house. The beauty that, save for a few photos, provide evidence of what the occupants of this house were.
San Diego! Stay focused, Sam.
My rambling mind eventually allows my eyes to find the driveway. I’m hopeful Ryan’s beaten-up car will come gasping to a stop.
It doesn’t.
The only thing visible is that ugly, muddy-colored tabby cat. Perched beneath the tree in the middle of the yard, it scratches its backside and stares at me. The cat and I aren’t cordial. I have a collection of bruises from feeding it to prove it. Ending the vicious cycle makes the most sense. Yet, I can’t fathom the thought of it being alone and hungry.
I always tell myself I’ll wear gloves next time it comes around. I always forget. Pain is a searing reminder that I’m still here—life still clutches the soul I possess.
So, maybe, I don’t mind the scratches so much. I’ve never met a person content with being a zombie, but I guess you don’t really meet yourself. You just are. You’re not given an option of who you want to be—you simply exist. Most hope, as I do, that their meager existence isn’t swallowed whole by the universe.
“Come on. San Diego.” I run my hands through my tangled mass of thick curls as I spin away from the window. My patience wears thinner than the floors in our craptastic house. Plunging my right index finger into my mouth, I bite the nail. My mother always reminds me to be a lady. ‘Ladies don’t bite their nails,’ she says. This would be the absolute wrong time to start listening to her; I bite my nail to the nub.
No one chooses to be alone in life. They want some form of companionship. They want friends, family, or even an animal…. When we are denied this simple human desire, our minds rebel. Or maybe just mine. Sanity is a personal condition.
About the Author:
Dawn wants to live in a world inhabited by fictional characters. Since the world is not comprised of dreamy book boyfriends, she creates them for everyone to fawn over. She writes Young Adult fantasy and science fiction.
When she is not writing, she can be found with her nose in a book - swooning over another book boyfriend, drying up tears from a recent heartbreak, or shouldering a wound she received in battle. She also loves to create magic in the kitchen with an array of inspiring dishes she pulls from Pinterest. Dawn lives in South Texas with her sports obsessed husband, three technology infatuated teenagers, and her great big, colossal, imagination.
Dawn on the Web:
Website * Facebook * Twitter * Pinterest
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