Drowning has multiple meanings in this post. Yes, I feel I’m drowning on multiple levels, but I’ll give you a few general ones so you’ll only need your mud boots, not your waders, today. Firstly, medical. Geez, things have become complex this year in that regard. I’ll spare you the details but wow. This has caught me off guard. But doesn’t most illness? Second, publishing and writing – yep, I’m drowning there in a manner of speaking. My illness has complicated my writing efforts so very much, but I’m trying. This post is evidence. Third and last for this post, recognition. If you’re reading this post, yay! Thanks for being here. I appreciate you, but I’ve come to understand just what a tiny fish I am in the writerly sea, so I’ve chosen to begin sharing my mixed media art on this site as a second creative outlet, but you’ll read more about that in a future post If you’re around.
Now for today’s writerly meaning for drowning. My novel Rules of Trade*, Mamatan Book One, is now available on Amazon and Smashwords. Chapter One bears the title of “Drowning”, so here’s your first glimpse into Mamatan’s world. You can click the cover to your left or right to reach the Amazon US site or purchase from another online retailer in the near future.
“An agent’s coffin?” A male spoke in muffled Terran Common. “It’s crushed! How’d it survive entry?”
“Pure luck.” Another male voice as muffled as the first. “Watch yourselves. It’s still hot.”
Are they wearing masks too?
“Didn’t the Alyward send word of a four month delay?”
“Wormhole time distortion,” said someone. “It always makes sending and receiving between worlds a little off.”
“Then how long was this coffin in there?”
“Long enough for the gravity to play havoc.”
Trade Agent Etain Ixtii tried to call out, but any sound she made remained trapped behind her breather. I made it! I survived! But she knew she was injured.
“Glad it’s in the shallows,” said another voice. Female? Maybe, but Alyward gender-based inflections weren’t the same as this world’s. “Brr. I thought it was spring.”
“Late cold snap. Say, why’s the Royal Physician here?”
“Witness for the death log.”
“Foreign particles check negative.”
“Rad counts are down.”
Get me out of this fly box! She struggled in her straps.
“Careful, Fiam,” said a soothing, male voice. “Splash water on those handles. Everyone use gloves. Easy now. I don’t want to treat my own staff. And use your masks. We don’t know if any micro-contaminants survived entry.” Pressure, light, and stifling humidity flooded over Etain.
Shallows. Fly box. Intact body. – I’m here! If you’re a bit confused, imagine how desperate Mamatan feels at present.
Until next week, my dears, and I hope to actually post on Wednesday.
*originally published as Surrogate in 2017