What the Faeries Left Behind by Amber Michelle Cook is today's featured book on One Thousand Worlds.
What the Faeries Left Behind-
About the author-
Hi everybody. I'm Amber, happy to have just released my second book. I'm not ashamed to admit I have a print copy of it hanging out nearby so I can see it, and would have hugged it when it arrived in the mail. I didn't hug it, didn't want to squish it, but it sure made me all smiley. I can't wait for people to read it.
I write urban fairy tales (for grown-ups) and lit-style period pieces with a speculative element.
I like reading speculative fiction, preferring books that are less straight SF or Fantasy, but more Something Cool meets the Real World. I go for substance, but favor substance with fun, quirk or humor over serious abuse and brutality. I like to say that while I don't enjoy Man's Inhumanity to Man, I do enjoy Inhumanity's Inhumanity to Man (so monsters and supernatural/paranormal of all kinds) [grin].
Aside from being an author, I'm also an artist, a graphics artist. If you'd like to see some of my Chromatic Daffodil Shadows, http://www.cafepress.com/chromaticshadow.
In addition to those two things, I love all forms of color and light, all things aquatic, literature, TV, SAABs, french fries, improv writing, Halloween, daffodils and integrity.
What the Faeries Left Behind
What the Faeries Left Behind-
Looking for something fun to read? I write stories of deep, meaningful fun.
My first book is an urban fairy tale for adults.
___ _ _ _ ___
After coming home from a monotonous office job to the apartment where she lives alone, thirty-something Abigail Watson is having a tough day in a hard week in a rotten month, and don’t even get her started on the year. Until that night when something wonderfully impossible shows up at her door and rings the bell insistently.
You’re not supposed to answer the door late at night to strangers who come knocking unannounced, right?
Right. But Abigail does.
Because how can you be scared of someone with translucent wings like those of a dragonfly?
___ _ _ _ ___
What the Faeries Left Behind is an urban fairy tale ‘antidote’ to those times when the dullness and drudgery of grown-up life seems inescapable, and to the misconception that wonder and play are just for children.
My first book is an urban fairy tale for adults.
___ _ _ _ ___
After coming home from a monotonous office job to the apartment where she lives alone, thirty-something Abigail Watson is having a tough day in a hard week in a rotten month, and don’t even get her started on the year. Until that night when something wonderfully impossible shows up at her door and rings the bell insistently.
You’re not supposed to answer the door late at night to strangers who come knocking unannounced, right?
Right. But Abigail does.
Because how can you be scared of someone with translucent wings like those of a dragonfly?
___ _ _ _ ___
What the Faeries Left Behind is an urban fairy tale ‘antidote’ to those times when the dullness and drudgery of grown-up life seems inescapable, and to the misconception that wonder and play are just for children.
I write urban fairy tales (for grown-ups) and lit-style period pieces with a speculative element.
I like reading speculative fiction, preferring books that are less straight SF or Fantasy, but more Something Cool meets the Real World. I go for substance, but favor substance with fun, quirk or humor over serious abuse and brutality. I like to say that while I don't enjoy Man's Inhumanity to Man, I do enjoy Inhumanity's Inhumanity to Man (so monsters and supernatural/paranormal of all kinds) [grin].
Aside from being an author, I'm also an artist, a graphics artist. If you'd like to see some of my Chromatic Daffodil Shadows, http://www.cafepress.com/chromaticshadow.
In addition to those two things, I love all forms of color and light, all things aquatic, literature, TV, SAABs, french fries, improv writing, Halloween, daffodils and integrity.
Click.
“You have—one—new message.”
Okay...
“…Hello? Is this—I mean, I’m trying to reach—”
Reach?
“Your message just says—”
Yeah?
“I…I guess I misdialed—But if not, then Monica, if this is your machine—”
Grr. I jabbed the button down hard.
Be-ee-ep.
A voice in a forced tone of friendliness told me: “Message deleted. You have—no—new messages.”
Uch.
I went to take out my contacts and put on some sweats, wondering about Monica. Whoever she is, she used to have this number. I still get the occasional call for her. And when they call, they get all confused like that guy did just now because I only have the prerecorded, ‘you’ve reached such and such phone number’ rather than a personalized greeting. But it’s better than advertising that I’m a female living by myself.
Figures my only message is a wrong number.
Yeah, don’t get your hopes up.
I hate getting my hopes up. They get dashed, and then I get depressed. And when I get depressed, everything starts to look hopeless. It takes me a long time to recover and I’m not sure I ever fully do. So I don’t need any more disappointments, thank you very much.
Ring.
Noooo.
I had just sat down for the first time since getting home.
Ring.
I leaned back into the couch, enjoying the sensation of not having to hold my head up. I was on call so I’d have to answer my work phone, but I was under no such obligation to my personal cell phone or my landline.
Ring. Click.
I always leave the volume up on my answering machine so I can screen calls, too many of them are solicitations and I can’t talk to those people any more.
“Hello? Hello!”
I waved whoever it was away with a vague flick of my wrist, wishing I could hang up on them. Telemarketers are so obnoxious, and I can’t stand the automated ones.
“Drat. I know you’re home. You don’t know me, but I need to speak with you. Badly…YOO-HOO!”
Yoo-hoo?
“It’s about who you really are, where you’re from.”
Huh.
“I’m right outside. The one standing in front of your apartment holding a cell phone—the ONLY one standing in front of—mm, let’s see, I’ll just go…and…ring the bell…[riiiiing]…”
Riiiiing.
I sat up.
Wha’?
Normally I’m more alert and responsive to my environment than this, but it had been a tough day. A tough day in a hard week, and a hard week in a rotten month, and don’t even get me started on the year.
“…[riiing]…”
Riiing.
I went to the window, brushed aside the curtains on one end and peeked out. Just outside I could see someone stepping back onto the sidewalk and peering in at me, all annoyed. Whoever it was sighed and then walked the few steps back to my front door.
Beep. Click. Beep.
I was gaping.
Wow.
Knock, knock.
No way.
Knock, knock.
You’re not supposed to answer the door late at night to strangers who come knocking unannounced, right?
KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK.
Fine.
“I’m coming!”
KNOCK, KNOCK—
I opened the door all the way to let ’em in, because how can you be scared of someone with translucent wings like those of a dragonfly half the size of their body?
“You don’t think I’m Monica, do you?” My tone was suspicious, but that was only a front to cover the childlike thrill threatening to overcome me any second.
This is so cool!
This had better not be another case of mistaken identity.
Shushing the internal conflict, I wordlessly motioned for…It? to step inside.
“Monica? What? No. Why?” It came in full-body fretting and added with a squeak, “You’re Abbey, aren’t you?”
I ducked around trying to avoid the wings as It attempted to squeeze past me in the narrow entryway.
Its voice rose a notch. “Abigail? Abigail Louisa Watson?”
“Yeah, that’s me but—”
“From Springfield—”
“Let’s just get inside,” I said. Strangely I was the one doing the calming as It twisted and turned to get past me in order to get a better look at me. “Watch out—”
Those gossamer wings might look as fragile as butterflies, but they were the ones doling out the damage. They knocked down two of my framed photographs off the wall, and then gave me the equivalent of an open-handed slap in the mouth.
It finally got to where It wanted to be to give me a sharp mustering glare while I rubbed my cheek and upper lip with the back of my hand.
“Of course,” the creature said after a moment of silence, “you’re not actually Abigail Watson, but the important thing is that we’ve found you at last.”
Wide-eyed I motioned It further into the apartment. It entered the living room with something like a swagger, but once there It flapped those gorgeous iridescent wings ever so gently, gliding over and onto the sofa.
I had to look away.
This is too much.
But then of course I had to look back again immediately. It was sitting up on the back of the futon frame sofa, swinging Its legs over the edge, dangling them above the seat. I hadn’t noticed how short It was…
Now wait a minute.
It had been taller than me when It came in. I hardly wanted to blink for fear I might miss something.
It stared at my plain, black couch, pursed Its thin lips and shook Its head. It laid both hands down across the back, rolled Its eyes and gave me a chiding look. Scrunching Its butt around like It had an itch, the metal frame began to gleam like polished chrome and the futon cover took on the liquid luster of tropical waters. As it ceased to move, I noticed the rocking motions of the futon changing, too—they became more sluggish…and were accompanied by a faint sloshing sound.
A water sofa?
So glad I didn’t miss that!
Besides, I had been wanting something extra-ordinary like this to happen all my life.
“You have—one—new message.”
Okay...
“…Hello? Is this—I mean, I’m trying to reach—”
Reach?
“Your message just says—”
Yeah?
“I…I guess I misdialed—But if not, then Monica, if this is your machine—”
Grr. I jabbed the button down hard.
Be-ee-ep.
A voice in a forced tone of friendliness told me: “Message deleted. You have—no—new messages.”
Uch.
I went to take out my contacts and put on some sweats, wondering about Monica. Whoever she is, she used to have this number. I still get the occasional call for her. And when they call, they get all confused like that guy did just now because I only have the prerecorded, ‘you’ve reached such and such phone number’ rather than a personalized greeting. But it’s better than advertising that I’m a female living by myself.
Figures my only message is a wrong number.
Yeah, don’t get your hopes up.
I hate getting my hopes up. They get dashed, and then I get depressed. And when I get depressed, everything starts to look hopeless. It takes me a long time to recover and I’m not sure I ever fully do. So I don’t need any more disappointments, thank you very much.
Ring.
Noooo.
I had just sat down for the first time since getting home.
Ring.
I leaned back into the couch, enjoying the sensation of not having to hold my head up. I was on call so I’d have to answer my work phone, but I was under no such obligation to my personal cell phone or my landline.
Ring. Click.
I always leave the volume up on my answering machine so I can screen calls, too many of them are solicitations and I can’t talk to those people any more.
“Hello? Hello!”
I waved whoever it was away with a vague flick of my wrist, wishing I could hang up on them. Telemarketers are so obnoxious, and I can’t stand the automated ones.
“Drat. I know you’re home. You don’t know me, but I need to speak with you. Badly…YOO-HOO!”
Yoo-hoo?
“It’s about who you really are, where you’re from.”
Huh.
“I’m right outside. The one standing in front of your apartment holding a cell phone—the ONLY one standing in front of—mm, let’s see, I’ll just go…and…ring the bell…[riiiiing]…”
Riiiiing.
I sat up.
Wha’?
Normally I’m more alert and responsive to my environment than this, but it had been a tough day. A tough day in a hard week, and a hard week in a rotten month, and don’t even get me started on the year.
“…[riiing]…”
Riiing.
I went to the window, brushed aside the curtains on one end and peeked out. Just outside I could see someone stepping back onto the sidewalk and peering in at me, all annoyed. Whoever it was sighed and then walked the few steps back to my front door.
Beep. Click. Beep.
I was gaping.
Wow.
Knock, knock.
No way.
Knock, knock.
You’re not supposed to answer the door late at night to strangers who come knocking unannounced, right?
KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK.
Fine.
“I’m coming!”
KNOCK, KNOCK—
I opened the door all the way to let ’em in, because how can you be scared of someone with translucent wings like those of a dragonfly half the size of their body?
“You don’t think I’m Monica, do you?” My tone was suspicious, but that was only a front to cover the childlike thrill threatening to overcome me any second.
This is so cool!
This had better not be another case of mistaken identity.
Shushing the internal conflict, I wordlessly motioned for…It? to step inside.
“Monica? What? No. Why?” It came in full-body fretting and added with a squeak, “You’re Abbey, aren’t you?”
I ducked around trying to avoid the wings as It attempted to squeeze past me in the narrow entryway.
Its voice rose a notch. “Abigail? Abigail Louisa Watson?”
“Yeah, that’s me but—”
“From Springfield—”
“Let’s just get inside,” I said. Strangely I was the one doing the calming as It twisted and turned to get past me in order to get a better look at me. “Watch out—”
Those gossamer wings might look as fragile as butterflies, but they were the ones doling out the damage. They knocked down two of my framed photographs off the wall, and then gave me the equivalent of an open-handed slap in the mouth.
It finally got to where It wanted to be to give me a sharp mustering glare while I rubbed my cheek and upper lip with the back of my hand.
“Of course,” the creature said after a moment of silence, “you’re not actually Abigail Watson, but the important thing is that we’ve found you at last.”
Wide-eyed I motioned It further into the apartment. It entered the living room with something like a swagger, but once there It flapped those gorgeous iridescent wings ever so gently, gliding over and onto the sofa.
I had to look away.
This is too much.
But then of course I had to look back again immediately. It was sitting up on the back of the futon frame sofa, swinging Its legs over the edge, dangling them above the seat. I hadn’t noticed how short It was…
Now wait a minute.
It had been taller than me when It came in. I hardly wanted to blink for fear I might miss something.
It stared at my plain, black couch, pursed Its thin lips and shook Its head. It laid both hands down across the back, rolled Its eyes and gave me a chiding look. Scrunching Its butt around like It had an itch, the metal frame began to gleam like polished chrome and the futon cover took on the liquid luster of tropical waters. As it ceased to move, I noticed the rocking motions of the futon changing, too—they became more sluggish…and were accompanied by a faint sloshing sound.
A water sofa?
So glad I didn’t miss that!
Besides, I had been wanting something extra-ordinary like this to happen all my life.
Where you can buy What the Faeries Left Behind:
You can connect with Amber Michelle Cook here:
Blog (for more about the story, including an excerpt)
Twitter
Goodreads
More links:
Goodreads
More links:
For my blog, Caution: Adults Playing, go to: http://ambermichellecook.weebly.com/das-blog.html
Do you know Bublish? Check out my book bubble there: http://www.bublish.com/bubble/view/1032
And watch a fun book trailer for What the Faeries Left Behind: http://youtu.be/Dg0SFv9FtKM
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