Tag: am writing

Uncategorized

Zemblanity Eradicated ++Bonus Chapter++

Manda Kay

            Sunlight punched Rienford through the skull. He sat up in the shower, freezing water pouring over him, curtain and door wide open. He had no memory of getting in, but at least he wasn’t covered in vomit anymore. At least his water hadn’t been shut off yet. It was the smallest of things that got him through the day. Give it time, though…

            One shaky hand seized the handle and turned until the flow ceased. He stepped out, trying not to glance at his reflection before exiting the bathroom. He failed. Just like everything else, he failed.

            The hair on his head and face were greying, long, and out of control. His cheeks were hollow and corpse-like. His green eyes were dull, devoid of life, bugged out from his disintegrating face. If he stared at his reflection, his pupils narrowed until there was almost nothing but iris. Tiny planets in an expanse of angry red electrical storms.

            He thought about brushing his teeth before giving in to another booze binge, but the dead bug on his toothbrush changed his mind. Instead, he grasped the cold plastic and chucked both brush and bug out of the bathroom door and into the living room. It joined the clutter of papers and vomit that littered the once shiny wooden floors.

            With a sigh, he gave his reflection another once over, too exhausted to put forth the effort necessary to clean himself up more than the ice-cold shower already accomplished. Maybe that carcass was a blessing in disguise. In the past, he’d at least crack a smile at such absurd optimism, but his face was stone set. Timothy Rienford didn’t smile. Not anymore.

            He shambled to the living room, searching for something he swore calmed his nerves but really made him more on edge than ever before. Remnants of powder dusted the coffee table, not enough to give him the extra push to true relaxation, absolute nirvana, or at least that’s what he thought, at least it was what he believed. It wasn’t enough to make his head buzz in what he swore was empty clarity, but it was enough to smear into the grime of his forefinger and rub along the inside of his mouth. He couldn’t taste it. He felt like he should be able to, but he guessed that after everything his tongue had been through it was numb to the flavor.

            If there was such a thing as spirits, he hoped Tish’s would hang out in the bedroom with her remains. It was the only spot in the house free of clutter and piss and booze and drugs. A shrine. He imagined her as an angel waiting patiently for him to join her in eternity. She would look just the same as she was before the world crumbled.

            It was easy to remember her that way while he was awake. Beautiful, smooth, dark skin. Hair sleek and shiny from clockwork beauty shop appointments. Her left eye was just a little bigger than her right. But you’d never notice it. Not unless you’d spent years looking into them for hours at a time. Tish hated it when he stared at her like that. At least, she said she hated it, but she wore a sly smile whenever she brought it up. Timothy never knew if she was joking or not. Now he never would.

            Thinking on Tish was a blessing.

            Most of the time.

            In his dreams, his nightmares, she was only a fragment of the way he remembered her by. Her teeth and nails were long and jagged. She’d chase him through his old office, back when he still had an office to go to, the halls and rooms a maze with dead ends and no exit. She was shrouded in darkness, hiding in shadows, somehow always a few steps ahead of him. Everything sharp gleamed in the dim light, but he preferred the lighting that way. He couldn’t see her face in the dark.

            Oh God, her face.

            Half the skull crushed in from impact. Patches of hair missing as if she’d ripped them out herself in all her misery. The skin of her lower jaw was torn away, exposing tendons and bone. Cubes of glass hung in what remained of her matted, dirty hair like glitter. Her eyes bulged, one dramatically bigger than the other now, and when he gazed into them, he couldn’t decide if she looked more angry or afraid. Dear God, it was probably a little bit of both.

            “God,” he whispered. He’d never been much of a praying man, but…

            Desperate times called for desperate measures. Or maybe it wasn’t desperation at all. Something that tasted more sour than bittersweet. Guilt. There was the word.

            “I want to come home.”

            If there was a heaven, Tish would be in it.

            Rienford looked at the back of his hands on the grungy coffee table. His veins bubbled up to the surface, begging him to make the first cut, to really come home, to seal his fate once and for all. But no. He didn’t know if he was a coward or if he feared punishment in the afterlife, but for him, it wasn’t an option. Death from accidental alcohol poisoning wasn’t completely out of the picture. Nor an overdose of a bad batch of nose candy. Nor accidentally slipping and cracking his skull open. Accidentally stepping into the street without looking first for the shiny new supercharged car pushing the rev to red. Accidents were God’s will, but he couldn’t explain away intentionally cutting his life short, literally.

            If he killed himself, where would he go?

            If they hadn’t fought before her death, would he care?

            He had no memory of walking or crawling to the bathroom, but he lifted his right hand all the same, making a fist, drawing it back, ready to kiss the mirror with knuckles and brute force. Inches away, he stopped himself. Why? Why bother? Instead of busting the glass, Timothy Rienford screamed. He screamed until he ran out of air, and then he screamed again. He kept on until his throat was raw and his voice was gone.

Photo by Vijay Sadasivuni on Pexels.com

            Spent, he got on his hands and knees and crawled the short distance from bathroom to bedroom. He stopped at the nightstand to marvel once more at the cream-colored urn. How could such a big personality fit in a pot so small? That body he caressed during heated moments went on and on for an eternity. There was no way it could be reduced to an area no wider than the palms of his hands, no hither than the length of his forearm. After all this time, it still didn’t seem real. His trembling finger traced an engraved curl lovingly. His sobs felt natural.

            Time ceased to have meaning for a little while. The tears cut through the dirt on his face; he could feel them drying. He sat with his weary head in his hands and let his mind calm, staying that way for several minutes. At last, he looked up at the cobwebbed ceiling and spoke to someone he wasn’t certain could hear him, if they were even there.

            “God, please.” Another wave of emotion threatened to take hold, but he swallowed it back. “Give me the strength to—”

            A thump at the door.

            Absentmindedly, Timothy reached for the dirty towel on the floor next to him and wrapped it around his waist. He wasn’t sure what exactly he was asking for strength for in the first place. To live? To die? The distraction was welcome.

            Unless…

            What if it was her? Not Rebecca: she stopped coming by months ago. Not Abbigale: she cut him off the year before. Not Tish, of course, because she was in the bedroom. But…her. What if she was finally coming back to finish him off in the worst way possible?

            He had wanted to kill himself just a little while earlier. Now, death didn’t seem all that appealing. Not if he was going to be eaten alive by some shadow creature from hell. Rienford stayed rooted to the spot long enough for his fear to lessen to a dull tremor. If it was her, she would have busted the door in by now and taken him away. She would have slid through the gap between the jamb, her bony fingers hooked like claws so as to better rip his throat apart. The imagery sped up his heart rate but calmed his nerves. Of course it wasn’t her. If it was, he’d be dead already.

            Be it her or not, he was slow to open the front door. Paranoia kept his hand on the knob even as he took a cautious step over the threshold. It was raining outside. He could have sworn it was daylight just minutes ago. He must have stood inside waiting for longer than he thought. That, or his head was so hazy from the bingeing (and, more importantly, crashing) over the past…how many days had it been? He supposed it didn’t matter.

            Rienford took another hesitant step forward, only to jerk back when the bottom of his foot touched something that was not the porch he had built several years earlier. He dashed back inside and slammed the door behind him, cowering by the sofa, certain now that she was here, that the silence after the thump had just been a clever ploy to lure him outside. Death was toying with him. Any minute now, she’d come through the door and attack.

            But he wouldn’t go down without a fight. No sir.

            Rienford took hold of the closest thing on his left. He was armed, and he’d show that bitch a thing or two about coming into his home.

            God, what he would give to have bump right now. Then he’d have just the edge he needed to take her on. He could overpower her before she opened the gateway to hell. Hell, even if she did, maybe if he had double the dose, he could take on the demon she summoned, too. Then he could tell Abbigale all about it and she’d be his friend again.

            “Screw this shit, man.”

            Waiting around for her to make the first move was bullshit. Why, she probably wanted him to cower in there for an eternity until he was nice and scared, then her demon pet could barge in and swallow him whole. The only way for him to come out ahead is if he charged her before she saw it coming. Then he could find his dealer and have a victory bump. Or he could call in a favor at the liquor store for some free booze. Some of those lowlifes owed him.

            But he was getting sidetracked.

            Rienford jumped up from the floor and charged the door full speed, fumbled with the knob again, and then dashed to the porch, bringing his weapon down as hard as he could on the monster on the ground. Again and again he beat it, ignoring the cool rain on his buttocks and thighs, not noticing the towel had come unraveled before he made it past the threshold.

            When he looked down to see if any life was left in the demon, he stopped mid-hit. There wasn’t a demon on his porch, but a newspaper. He was beating a newspaper to death with an old shoe. A cold pocket of air rushed passed him, making him all too aware of his nudity. Luckily for the weather, no one else was outside to take notice, but even if they did, he doubted they’d be surprised by it. In fact, they probably would have been waiting for this exact moment. Just another thing for them to point their collective finger at and laugh about both behind his back and to his face.

            He didn’t step inside to grab the towel again for them, but for him. He was going through a rough patch these last few months, and he’d make it through it, and by God, he still had his dignity. He grabbed the paper he almost beat to death gingerly, almost as if it would shed its skin and come to life if he touched it wrong. Turning heel to go back in for the night, he hesitated. Newspapers littered the porch, all wrapped in cheap plastic. When was the last time he brought the paper in? For the life of him, he couldn’t remember.

            Something told him to pick the papers up. All of them. Right now. He needed to set them up in his house. Let them dry.

            Timothy Rienford was looking for a sign. God delivered.

My Work

Zemblanity Eradicated +Bonus Chapter+

Manda Kay

          Timothy Rienford did not sleep. He tried. He tossed. He turned. But the fact of the matter was that the couch wasn’t even a fraction of the comfort that his bed would provide. He couldn’t bring himself to lay with his wife, though. It didn’t matter that his dick didn’t end up in another person this time. She wasn’t going to believe him. He was stupid to think otherwise.

            And, honestly, who could blame her?

fun fact: rienford was originally going to make up half the book. i loved him and his arc. cutting him until the bitter end hurt me more than you could imagine. Photo by Collis on Pexels.com

            No marriage was without its problems. That’s a phrase he liked to repeat to anyone who cared enough to listen. Nobody was perfect. Everyone made mistakes. What he didn’t like to acknowledge was the fact that some mistakes were bigger than others, and his was near the top of the list.

            He didn’t think of himself as a cheater. Cheaters had motives and plans and schemed their way into other people’s beds. Rienford did none of the above. Every time he woke up next to another woman, it was after something out of his control. He’d go out with the guys and have a few too many. He’d weigh his options through the haze of smoke and strobe lights, and ultimately make the wrong choice. The music flowed through him and their perfume awakened something inside himself that could not be tamed. That was the difference between him and other men, though. Other men hated their wives and girlfriends and were scoping out the playing field. Rienford always loved his wife.

            When they started out, sure, perhaps he took advantage of her young love and planted a few lies here and there, never imagining they would grow. He was faithful for seven years and counting, but to Tish, it didn’t matter. It didn’t stop the doubt festering in the back of her mind.

            Rienford wiped the tears from his cheeks impatiently. This whole thing didn’t hurt as bad as he expected. A little weight on the chest and nothing more. For now, he was feeling fine. A little sad, a little distracted, even, but fine. The hurt hadn’t absorbed yet.

            Normal would have to find a new normal.

            He smiled to himself, to the ceiling. What was he talking about? What was he thinking? This was just a fight, just like any other they’ve had and just like all the ones they would have after today. They’d get over it and move on with life. Come morning, she’d crawl up next to him on the couch and whisper how sorry she was, or he would give her a hug while she gave him the cold shoulder in the kitchen until she broke down and accepted his apology. All he had to do in the meantime was get some rest before work and wait the tide out.

            His thoughts wandered on and on like this, until at last his eyelids were too heavy to possibly keep open any longer. He closed them, then peeked back open; one long blink. Again, the same motion. He stared at the popcorn ceiling, watching the way the lights from the street flickered and moved as cars drove by outside the window. Again, the same motion. But this time, he faced not his ceiling, but something big, something black and hooked and pronged, its fleshy throat wet and exposed, its teeth lining the sides of the open hole, and a long, purple, almost black tongue hanging down, almost touching his hand.

            Rienford jerked his hand to his chest, sitting up and scooting away from the thing that loomed over him as fast as he could manage. He blinked, faster this time, and found nothing there. Nothing but the empty room.

            It was his imagination, nothing but an overworked brain after a long, stressful day at work. All he needed to do was get the images, the hallucinations, out of his head. Just think of something else. That easy. Like watching a funny movie after a horror flick before going to bed. Same exact thing. That was all it was, just one big bad dream.

            He stared at a fixed point on the ceiling, not letting his eyes dart this way and that, because every time he did he swore there was something moving just out of the corner of his vision. Happy thoughts. He stared and thought back on when he graduated college. His mother stood in the crowd, trying her best to blend in with everyone else even though she couldn’t have felt more out of place. A big black woman in a sea of California diet blondes. When the rest were busy snapping photos of their sons and daughters, his mama looked only at him; the only thing blocking her view was her own tears running down her plump face. He’d steal glances her way while he walked up to the podium to get his diploma. Only glances, lest her pride seep into him and make his heart swell just as much as hers. He’d never seen her so happy in his life. The cancer took her six months later. God rest her soul.

            Rienford smiled as the tears ran down in little streams to the shell of his ears, gathering there until they runneth over onto the fabric of the couch. He closed his eyes, and saw a snake thing with a dripping tongue. It licked the man on the ground until nothing but bone fragments remained. He couldn’t smell the death initially, but it wafted his way in due time. A mix of scents, like when his wife threw a few different wax melts into the warmer. But this was bleach in hot water, burning hair, something acidic, something a little like sour milk, an underlying sweetness. It made his stomach churn.

            Rienford’s eyes shot open. The room was dark. Quiet. His heart pounded behind his eyes. Again, he closed them. And again, he saw it. It slithered here and there with its crescent moon head, its empty eye sockets. Its tongue, long and flat, moved in and out of the hole in its neck. Every drop of saliva left a burning hole in the ground.

            And Death stood before him, not draped in black robes and a scythe, but in a plain sundress and army boots, extending a long, bony finger in his direction.

            He opened his eyes once more, sitting up fully, swinging his feet around to the side of the couch so they rested on the floor, trying desperately to ground himself. There would be no sleep tonight.

            He wanted nothing more than to walk to the bedroom he and Tish normally shared. He wanted to touch her shoulder, to shake her gently to consciousness. He wanted to confess everything; everything he saw, or at very least thought he saw. 

            Would she believe him? Not a chance in hell.

            Had roles been reversed, would he have believed her?

            There was a card in his deck he could pull if he wanted to, but Rienford had a gut feeling that it would only make matters worse. Bringing another woman into the matter would only seal his fate as a cheater and conspirator. It’d be best for all three of them if Abbigale remained a secret.

            He should have called her. Plain and simple. He would have come home a hero instead of whatever this was. Instead of being banished to the couch, he’d be in bed with Tish, worshipping her body like when they first got married and the getting was still good.

            Rienford’s dreams were all the same that night. Restful sleep did not come, and would not come ever again. By morning, he was shivering and soaked with sweat.

            He walked to the bedroom, quiet lest he wake Tish. She clung to his pillow tight, eye makeup dried against her cheeks and fists and sheets. Her mouth, even in sleep, was set in a frown. He sat at the bottom corner of the bed and just watched for a long while, letting his thoughts roam between his marriage and that skeleton girl in the alley. Death punctuated everything.

            Rienford got up from the bed and went to the shower, setting it to something just shy of scalding. On one hand, it upset him to make her so upset. On the other hand, there was this grim sort of satisfaction in seeing that makeup smeared everywhere. He didn’t like the feeling, but it was there.

            He’d let Tish have all the space she needed. She’d come around eventually. When he was done, he wiped the steam from the mirror, smiling at his reflection. He didn’t do anything last night, and sooner or later, she would have to accept it. She’d either get over it or die angry.

My Work

Zemblanity!! (or the author sucks at keeping everything up to date all at once)

Manda Kay

IT’S HERE!! WOOO!!!!

Zemblanity is finally available on Amazon! It was actually available a few days ago, and I had thought I made a post in queue about it. I did not. I was mistaken. Whoopsies.

That’s not the point, though. I mean, it is, but I’m not going to let it spoil my day. Also, the real point is I wanted to get on here to let you know that in the coming weeks, a few bonus chapters are going to pop up over here that ultimately got cut from the final product. Cool, right?

So if you’ve read my not-quite-so-charming tale of a neurodivergent megalomaniac, and you are just itching to know what the hell is the deal with that Timothy Rienford fellow, well, have I got a nice little assortment coming up for you! Also, fun fact, Rienford is my favorite character in the whole thing. He’s my complicated sad confused drug addict. I have a soft spot for those. And it killed me to scrap his chapters (half the damn book). But, ultimately, I think it was for the best, because even though he was my favorite, his story just wasn’t as strong as Allyson’s, and I went in a quasi different direction for him that just worked better in the long run.

Anyway, yes, you can find a few installments of some sweet, sweet Rienford coming up over here on Sundays for the next several weeks! In the meantime, if you haven’t bought Zemblanity yet, what are you doing??? Get yourself to this link and click it!!

Love you all xx

Uncategorized

Zemblanity (or a release date for early next month)

Manda Kay

Allyson Alexander has always been a loner at heart, but not from lack of wanting. Whenever she cries, her tears burn anything they touch. When they hit the floor, shit hits the fan, and monsters come out of the woodwork to destroy whatever hurt her. She’s determined to make the world a better place by only crying around the people who deserve it.

All that changes, however, when the monsters start to show up unannounced. They feast unsupervised and leave her piles of teeth to let her know they were there. To make matters worse, their recklessness has attracted the unwanted attention of a man who claims to know what she’s been up to. She thought the monsters knew the difference between right and wrong, but the body count keeps rising, and she’s running out of excuses.

Unless Allyson can learn to trust herself and the man who has been following her, the world as she knows it will come to an end as the monsters destroy everything she loves.

***

It’s happening.

After six years of playing nicely with this baby, it’s finally happening.

ARC’s are out to people in exchange for reviews, a cover is being finalized, and I am halfway through the proof–which by the way I’m so glad I’m taking the time to read through because I’ve found a handful of mistakes that I missed before. Once I’m done with that, it’s off to be formatted, and then–!!!!!

Oh dear god, you have no idea how elated and terrified I am for this to be in the public. It’s the first full-length novel I’ve ever completed, and while a part of me will be glad that it’s out there, another part of me will be sad that the story is done. I’ve spent a lot of time with Allyson, and I’m going to miss being in her head more than I can put into words. Bittersweet for sure.

But hey, I wanted to give you guys a couple of things over here. Firstly, my lame attempt at TikTok teasers:

@__mandakay

zemblanity.mandakay #booktok #authortok #indiehorror #newbooks #darkfantasybooks #horrorbooks

♬ Don’t Fear The Reaper – PI3RCE
don’t fear the reaper

I will probably play with TikTok more as the release date gets closer.

But what’s even more exciting than basically a slideshow set to music, you ask? A fuggin cover reveal, that’s what! Take a look at this, babyyy:::

it’s so beautiful i could cry :’)

This looks so much better than what I could have ever imagined. It pays to go through people who know what they are doing, that’s for sure!

Zemblanity is set to come out on August 2nd. Between now and then, I’ll post little sneak peeks and cut content and behind the scenes over here. I’d ask if you are as excited as I am, but I legitimately don’t think that’s possible, haha. 😉

My Work

Sexual Frustration (or why won’t you touch me)

Manda Kay

Hey there, Void. This title is misleading. It makes it sound like I’m going to put my own sex life on blast, which I’m not. No offense, but we barely know each other, and my mom reads these. Annyyywayyyyy… So I’m working on some preliminary stuff for another novel, and I had some music playing in the background, and I got inspired. I’m not ready to write this thing quite yet, but I typed out this little drabble. I can’t give you any background info or any sort of set up because I don’t have it yet. This is just a fleeting little scene. Let me know what you think! 🙂

***

I have these times when I’m alone in the house (face it, girl, you’re alone in the house more than there is company over) where I wander the halls aimlessly. It’s never-ending. For the life of me, I haven’t the faintest idea why he chose this place to call home. It’s far too big for two people, let alone one person. Did he live here alone before he brought me along? I think he must have been. I don’t think this reclusive thing he has going on started with me. I think it’s been a thing for a long time. Call it a hunch.

I travel up and down the halls, through the maze of rooms, wandering while blasting music from the speakers in the living room. It used to be rock music, but lately, I’ve taken up classical. I’m not that kind of girl, even though I’m sure he’d want me to be, but it fits the aesthetic he has going on so much better. It makes my time alone whimsical.

I’m always expecting to find something bad, like a dead body. The music shifted to something low and creepy. Instead of one dead body, I imagine hundreds, all spilling out from the floorboards. A guy in a mask has to have some skeletons in his closet, you know?

It always turns out that the more I look, the less frightened I am and the more excited I become. I don’t know if it’s because I don’t expect to find anything sinister lurking in the shadows or if it’s because if there were something, it would make sense. It would end this nagging feeling in the back of my mind.

It’s his house, but it’s my house, too, and if I want to go body hunting, well fuck, it’s my right to do so.

I never travel too far, though. Let’s not get overzealous here. This house is like a castle, and while it’s huge enough on the outside, it’s even bigger on the inside. I have this reoccurring fear of getting lost on my way to the kitchen and starving to death before anyone can find me. It’s stupid, I know. It’s big, but it’s not that big. It’s just a feeling, I guess.

Is it that weird to be afraid of a house?

Is it weirder to be afraid of my husband?

He’s never done a thing to me, and yet…

I don’t know. I’m being paranoid. Too much time alone in this Mall of America-sized living space has got me on edge.

This just isn’t at all what I had envisioned my life to be like, you know? I thought there would be way more glitz and glamor than there is. I stay home while he goes and makes women hot for him on stage. I know for a fact I’m not the only one who stared at his hands and wondered what they could do on someone like me. There’s a whole reddit group dedicated to the man’s fucking hands, for gods sake. He can do things beyond your wildest dreams, and still, he will not touch me.

Is it me?

Is he repulsed by me?

I can remember one time a few years back, it must have been a few days after we got married, and I was on his bed waiting for him. We hadn’t had sex yet. I thought he was trying to build up the sexual tension, and I got tired of waiting, so I took matters into my own hands. I sprawled out in lingerie and waited for him to come home. It was a look that won me a lot of favors with other men, lesser men than him, and when he walked in, I thought he’d take me right then and there.

Instead, laid on the bed next to me, watching behind that mask of his, lips parted just enough. I reached out to kiss him, and he recoiled. Not a lot. He didn’t cause a scene, he just moved, just out of reach, and so I didn’t pursue. Since he wouldn’t let me touch him, I touched myself. He reached his hand out toward me, gloved, as always, and floated just above my skin. He never touched me once, but I could almost feel him all the same.

I rolled onto my back, really getting into it, and he scooted in closer to me. Never touching, but almost. His hand ghosted over my body, and I think he was hard, but I was too focused on me to take much notice. Now, of course, I wish I had looked. Maybe then I wouldn’t be doing this to myself.

“Vivian,” he purred in that deep voice of his. I love it when he says my name. “Come.”

And I did. I gave it my all and came harder than I had in my entire sexual existence. You would probably think I was lying or overselling it, but I swear to you that I’m not. In two words, he made me come, and I reached out to him to cling on for dear life, to ride that final high, and—

He moved out of reach faster than I could grab, a self-satisfied smirk on his lips. I clutched a pillow instead, rocking into it in time with my heartbeat, wiping my hand on the fabric and in one blissful moment not giving a single fuck about any of it.

I laid there, satisfied but empty, hollow. He bid me goodnight and turned away, closing the door behind him.

I wonder if he heard me cry?

I haven’t tried anything like that since.

Not with him, at least.

My Work

One More Step (or a celebration)

Manda Kay

Hello, Void.

Just a quick little update to let you all know that I met my own personal deadline for completing the final draft of Zemblanity. It took five years and five drafts, but it’s finally done! By the time you read this, I will be balls deep in sending query letters to agents.

Manda Kay (@___mandakay) • Instagram photos and videos

This is treading new water. My game plan is to try to get the story to stick somewhere in a year. If after a year it’s still bouncing back, I will look into a smaller publishing house to work with directly. If after six months it’s still finding it’s way back home, I’ll cave and look into self-publishing.

I seriously cannot wait for you to read this. It’s like nothing else I’ve written previously, unless you count Improbable, but the site that was featured on I believe went under. Now that I think about it, I might take a look at that contract and see when I can publish it on my own. How do you handle contracts when the group doesn’t exist anymore? Huh.

While you’re waiting for this baby, I’ll still be working on other projects. I have another short story in the works that will likely end up in novella territory if things pan out the way I think they will. I’ll also be working on a novel that will go in a different direction than my first. Think Phantom of the Opera (for manipulation) meets Night Circus (for magic) meets You (for modernity). It’ll be fun. And maybe a little messed up, let’s be real.

Stick around, void! No matter how this pans out, it’ll be great!

My Mind

2020 Wrap Up

Manda Kay

Yes, January is almost over, but I wanted to make a post about it anyway. Here are the highlights of an otherwise shitty year. It was a productive one, despite everything.

Good God I’d kill for some cake right about now — Photo by Karolina Grabowska on Pexels.com

January:

  • Wrote lots of letters to my nephew in basic, including sending him some of my first draft work for Itsy Bitsy.
  • Started making time to workout. It was irregular because my work schedule was irregular.

February:

  • Had a marathon drafting session for Itsy Bitsy and finished it in a week. Found out I can get a lot done under pressure.
  • Tried to make plans for an engagement party. It was going to be either laid back barbeque or like a ritzy masquerade with close friends and family. Then Covid happen the following month. It didn’t happen.
  • Paid off my car. Paying things off is like winning the lottery.
  • Did Breaking Benjamin’s VIP. Held Ben’s hand during a song. Almost cried.

March:

  • Packed up the rest of our life and closed on a house.
  • Cleaned boogers and possible shit from the walls of said house. It was really nasty.
  • Covid officially started in Nebraska. Lots of things cancelled.
  • My job cut back hours dramatically, so I was shipped off into the store. I worked mostly in online grocery pickup. I had awesome managers. It was fun.

April:

  • Every moment not at work was spent unpacking and cleaning.
  • Work was boring half the time. My coworkers and I had to take temperatures and stand around. Eight hours doing nothing goes by slow.

May:

  • Finally started writing again. Spent a lot of time editing Itsy Bitsy.
  • Made a tough decision between more pay and consistent morning hours. In the end, I decided I didn’t want to work for Walmart forever, and the only way to reach my goals was if I had a job with less stress and more consistency. I stepped down to write.
  • Worked out significantly less than before, but my job had me walking around 6 miles a day, so I was cool with it.
  • We built a privacy fence. By ‘we’ I mean my fiancé and my dad.

June

  • Finished editing Itsy Bitsy. Started the second draft.
  • Started listening to a writing podcast in my free time. I did this for a sense of community. I kept it up for several months but ultimately stopped. I just wasn’t getting what I wanted out of it.
  • I have something in my planner that says SPOOKY TACOS. I’m not sure what the context of that is. All I know is I want them again, but this time, more spooky.

July

  • Finished the second draft of Itsy Bitsy. Sent it to my beta (my mama) for a read through.
  • My fiancé got a new job with much better pay. My worries of if I made the right financial decision by leaving my old job subsided just a little.
  • Did family pictures with everyone on my side. It was hectic. But it was nice to see everyone.

August

  • Finished Itsy Bitsy and uploaded it to the world. Also ordered paperback copies. My first physical book!
  • Started tracking my writing differently. Set out short term goals as a sort of business plan, and journaled any thoughts relating to them.
  • Got together with my mama to talk about wedding stuff. Finally got a vision in mind.
  • Wrote a little story for my best friend’s birthday Zoom party.
  • Gave my website some TLC. It still needs more.
  • Put down deposit for wedding venue. It’s non-refundable. I guess it’s for real.

September

  • Spent time in Tennessee. Wasn’t ready to come back.
  • Mailed copies of Itsy Bitsy to people I knew and a few I didn’t.
  • Submitted a silly little entry to a horror cookbook contest.
  • Sold six copies of Itsy Bitsy to a local bookstore. I need to go in sometime and see how it did.
  • Made a plan to contact another bookstore to do a signing once Covid subsides. It looks like it’ll be a while before that happens.
  • Became a member of HWA and NWG.
  • Submitted several pieces to another contest, including a few chapters of Zemblanity.

October

  • Started a newsletter.
  • Submitted a flash fiction piece to a contest. It didn’t place, but I wasn’t in love with it. Might expand on it later.
  • Left town to do engagement pictures. My best friend and maid of honor dressed up as Pennywise for them. It was fun.
  • Started to work on a piece for a contest, then stopped. Decided it’s best not to stress over something I don’t have a solid plan for. No more half ass stories.
  • Applied for a job outside of Walmart. Interviewed. Decided against it. Too many red flags, and I don’t want to be married to a job. I wasn’t willing to give what they were asking.

November

  • Serious work on Zemblanity. It’s still a work in progress, but it’s been coming along nicely.
  • Submitted a short essay to a magazine to feel it out. Working on a longer essay while I wait for a decision on it.
  • Got the news that the Zemblanity excerpt I submitted was accepted for Voices of the Plains. It’s due to come out soon.
  • Made a solid business plan for the entirety of next year.
  • Bought a new laptop. It was much needed.
  • Experienced the season finale of Unus Annus. Might have felt feelings and bought merch because of said feelings.
  • Found a sense of purpose/direction/will to live after months in a slump.
  • Missed family on Thanksgiving due to Covid.

December

  • Covid. So much Covid.
  • Missed Christmas with the family and a lot of work.
  • Made awesome progress with Zemblanity.

As for this year, I don’t have anything concrete planned out to make me a better human. I do know that I want to get back into yoga and pilates again, and I got a new mat for Christmas so I may as well put it to good use. And, of course, as I told you before, I have a solid business plan for writing this year. Let’s hope things work out. Not to mention a few other little ideas I want to take the time to try out. It might work out. It might not work out. I’ll keep you updated if anything cool happens, and I’ll expect you to forgive me if I don’t tell you. Namely because if I don’t tell you, it means I made an absolute fool of myself, and while I am totally onboard with the whole idea of ditching the false narrative of constant happiness and optimism that social media drives into us, I don’t like to feel stupid, yo. You get it. 😉

Question time: Is there anything in particular you’d like to hear more about or see more of? Book reviews? Wedding shiz? My own personal writing things? Blog style whatnots? Lemme know! I’d love for this website to be more interactive. More people with conversation. Less bots that click like without even reading what was written.

Well, Void, here’s to a great 2021! Happy fucking New Year!!

My Work

Zemblanity (or teenage heartthrob 101)

Manda Kay

It’s that time again. The fourth chapter, for better or worse, in all its glory. If you would like a refresher, here’s a link to chapter three. Otherwise, without further bullshit, here’s what you came for:::

***

Chapter Four

            Sleep did not come to Allyson that night.

            Under normal circumstances, it did not bother her in the least. There was plenty to do at night. She’d balance checkbooks, wash floors, spend time touching the holes in the wood from events that seemed to happen ages ago or just yesterday, depending on her mood. 

            But not this time. No, all she could manage was tossing and turning in her twin size bed. She stared out in the blackness imagining different colors and shapes dancing before her eyes. Nonsense and random.

            Sometimes, she’d squint until she swore she saw her again. It was a her. She was sure of it. Breasts, though shriveled, were still present. Skin like powdered latex. Some of her bones protruded in sections around her shoulders, her hips, the skin stretching almost beyond its means—it looked as though it could split at any given moment. It resembled spiked armor. Beautiful. Deadly.

            At night when the tossing and turning wouldn’t give way to rest, she would let her mind wander. No matter where her thoughts started, they would most often lead to that night. The moment everything changed. She thought it was for the better. Most days it seemed for the better. But sometimes the act got tiresome.

            She tried not to think about it too much. She didn’t want to obsess.

            “Not that you haven’t already.”

            The act consisted of two main scenes. First was the matter of the liquid courage her dead deadbeat relied on so heavily. There was a wall of beer cases in the living room, still full. She’d empty it in the next couple months at the end of the year. It was easier to keep track of when it was present and ready to count. By the end of December, there should be fifty-two. It was easier to buy beer than make up stories about sobering up. She’d bought for her old man often enough for the clerk to be okay with her purchasing alone. Everyone knew who the Alexander girl was buying for.

            The second scene was a little tougher than buying underage. Keeping her father under wraps only came by keeping up appearances. Periodically she stood in front of the mirror. With an open palm, she’d strike herself on the cheek, the mouth, near her eye, her ear. It was by far the least enjoyable part of the ruse, but a necessary evil. It was easier to create self-inflicted cuts and bruises than make up stories of happy family dinners and game nights.

            It was hard pretending to live in a broken home when in reality things couldn’t be better.

            Maybe better.

            A little better.

            The night was long, and she was tired.

            Allyson reached under her pillow, fingers searching for either cloth or drawstring. From practice, she was able to find the opening and grasp the tooth without removing the bag from its home. It was bumpy along both sides from years of plaque eating away at the bone. Had he been alive, this tooth wouldn’t be in one piece. 

            “It’s funny how life works out sometimes.”

            Her words bounced off the empty walls of the room. Deafening.

            If it hadn’t been for her, there wouldn’t be any teeth left in his mouth. In a way, she saved its life. The tooth rolled around in her palm over and over again while her mind jumped from one thought to the next in rapid succession until it landed on something worth pondering.

            Zaquerie Aimes.

            Zaquerie Aimes tomorrow.

            It wasn’t as if he were inviting her to another party. He’d tried that a couple times before. She never kidded herself before; thus, she hadn’t accepted. The invite wasn’t special then. She’d been sitting in a classroom full of people then, and everyone got an invite. Even Allyson. He hadn’t cared then; he’d just wanted to be polite.

            She could see though the bad-boy persona he held onto like his life depended on it. The clothes, the hair, the booze, the cigarette smile, all of it screamed villainy and violence. It was his eyes that gave him away, though. His eyes weren’t dead. Far from it. They reflected the gold in his soul. That boy didn’t have one mean bone in his body.

            “We’re the same, you and me.”

            The words didn’t feel like her own, but the buzzing in her throat said otherwise. Uncomfortably aware of her own pulse, she shoved the tooth back in its place and rolled to her side. Blood rushed to her cheeks, making her face burn. Yes, she liked him well enough. He was kind to her, and while no one was outwardly mean, no one was particularly pleasant.

            Yes, she liked him well enough. He had a nice personality and he was nice to look at. It was nothing serious. Nothing life-changing.

            “So then why the butterflies?” she asked the darkness.

            The darkness did not answer.

***

Photo by Mau00edra Morelle on Pexels.com

And that’s it, folks. If you want to read more, you can catch chapters five and six in Voices from the Plains, which should be coming out very soon. You’ll know when exactly as soon as I do.

If you want to stay updated Zemblanity and the progress I’m making on it, be sure to subscribe to my monthly newsletter. I’ll post the sign up below if you are interested.

What did you think? I’m really curious to know, good, bad, and ugly. Shoot me a comment, or if you’re camera shy, you can pass an email along my way.

Have a good one, void. Scream at ya later. xx

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My Work

Zemblanity (or that funny feeling you give)

Manda Kay

Alright, Void. One more update after this one before I hit the no post zone. Let’s make the most of it, shall we?

Allyson is a little creepy. Let’s see what’s up with her now. A little time has passed for both us and for her, so who knows, maybe she’s chilled out?

***

Chapter Three

            Allyson was almost certain she would never need to know the difference between one triangle and the next. Triangles were triangles. Three-sided and incredibly boring.

            “My life is a triangle.”

            Only two people took notice of her mumbling; they turned around to shoot her a glare. She looked back down at her notebook, scribbling equations she didn’t understand.

            Four years. Four years since she started this façade, and not a single incident. And it wasn’t from lack of trying.

            Yes, no one ever guessed the truth about her living situation, and that was well and all, but she was bored with it. She wanted more. 

            She attempted summoning up the creature from that night more times than she cared to admit, but nothing ever came of it. It took two years of staying up late and recreating the situation best she could by herself for her to finally give up and accept it for what it was: a fluke. Devil traps were drawings and Ouija boards were toys.

            She might have thought it all a dream if not for the faded scars under her eyes and the speckled holes in the hall of her home. And, of course, the body. Thankfully, it was easy to keep the deadbeat under wraps.

            Allyson never knew her mother. She imagined her occasionally, making up stories to go with whatever face she chose to give her. She didn’t have the luxury of family photos to use for reference. Most often, she imagined her dead. Sometimes in a car crash. Other times during childbirth. She didn’t want to imagine her alive. If she was alive, that meant that she left her daughter with a drunk. Abandoned. And she didn’t want to believe that. Otherwise, she’d be worse than him. No, her mother loved her dearly, but the grim reaper had different plans.

            “Hey, Allyson.”

            She was so deep in thought, so didn’t notice anyone leaning against the front of her desk. Her heart leapt into her throat, thin shoulders rising in surprise that she tried to cover up with a stretch. She furrowed her brow, feigning annoyance.

            Everyone in the classroom, teacher included, was gone. Not the first time she’d zoned out during a lecture, and definitely wouldn’t be the last.

            “Um…yeah?”

            Icy blue eyes traveled up the ripped jeans, up the grey hoodie hiding the lean muscle beneath. She could feel her heart pounding in her throat, her wrists, her eyes, and her lips trembled if she didn’t force a smile. Whenever Zaque talked to her, she’d stare at his eyes. One moment they’d look green, and if she blinked, she’d swore they were brown. Like magic.

            “What are you doing later?”

            Sometimes she would envision the spelling of his name. She’d see it in neon lights hovering over his head. Utterly ridiculous. His parents, hip and trendy as they were, couldn’t settle on a spelling that made sense. Zaquerie Aimes. She didn’t know his middle name, but it was likely just as obnoxious.

            “Probably nothing? Why? What do you want?”

            She kept her half smile and annoyed expression. Sending mixed signals was somewhat of a specialty of hers. Keep them guessing, keep you safe. Besides, no one, not him, not anyone, ever asked her something like…like…

            “Hey, hey, no reason to get upset or anything. I just wanted to see if you wanted to go to a movie or something. And, uh, if you don’t, that’s totally cool. Just offering and whatnots.”

            He held up his hands as if he could push his request on her. She’d watched him do it hundreds of times throughout the year. It didn’t matter if the other person was male or female. It didn’t change the outcome. Zaque was a superhero, and persuasion was his super power.

            She looked him over for what seemed to her like an eternity, searching for ulterior motives of the butt of the joke. If there was something there, he hid it well.

            “No.”

            Short and simple, more to see his reaction than anything, ready to brace herself against the bucket of pig blood that surely rested on an imaginary beam over her head. But nothing. Not even a smirk to prove how gullible she was. His eyebrows raised, mouth down turned even as he nodded in acceptance.

            “Not tonight, at least. My father wants me to run errands for him. Um, I mean, I’m free this weekend, though.”

            The heat traveled up her neck, into her cheeks, and her mind felt fuzzy. Allyson always had a half smile plastered to her face, but it felt like ages since the right side turned up in agreement. A little less forced than before. A little more natural.

            “Cool. Theater tomorrow at four then.”

            It didn’t sound like a question to her ears. He walked out of the room without waiting for a response. As if he already knew the answer. As if she didn’t have a choice in the matter. How dare he. How dare he how dare he how dare…

***

Photo by Wallace Chuck on Pexels.com

…Well, fuck.

Come back on December 6th for a final free chapter. I’ll let you know when the anthology is available for your enjoyment! 😉

My Work

Zemblanity (or gotta clean up this mess)

Manda Kay

Hey void. What’s up? I won’t keep you waiting for long.

It’s been a hot minute, but I have the second chapter of Zemblanity here and ready to go. In case you missed chapter one, you can find it here.

Fun fact: Allyson Alexander’s initials cause minor bullying at school since her dad is…er…was…a drunk. The AA jokes didn’t survive the first round of edits, and unfortunately exist only in my fleeting memory, because my dog decided a long while ago to pee on a bunch of my books and the first draft was one of them he chose to claim. He’s an asshole. He also has never peed on my books again. Seriously Jax. What were you thinking?

Without further word vomit, let’s see how Allyson is doing since shit hit the fan:

***

Chapter Two

            Tick

Tock

            Tick

Tock

            Tick

            Time and place sewn together in a blurred mass of grey. Allyson lost track of how long she sat over the corpse. Stray dogs barked and moaned from outside her house, her barrier. Streaks of daylight slashed through the shadows, carelessly highlighting the parts of her father she did not wish to see.

            Dead.

            Roger Alexander was dead. Nothing left of him but scraps of clothing and literal skin and bones. His body was stiff and dry, almost as if he was gone for years instead of hours (Days? She didn’t know, she couldn’t know). There on the floor, he didn’t look so big; his body collapsed on itself like a long dead spider.

            The first of many pangs of anxiety hit her, forcing her back to her feet to pace the floor in a set pattern she’d traveled many times. If he was still alive, she’d receive a hearty smack to the back of her matted head for the nervous habit. That was one thing she wouldn’t have to worry about anymore. She could pace when she wanted, watch what she wanted, eat what she wanted, do anything she wanted, and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.

            On one of her back and forth trips, Allyson glanced at the mirror at the end of the hall. She took in air so fast it hurt her throat. She almost didn’t recognize her own reflection. Something was different from before, but it was hard to tell what exactly from this far away. She wanted to walk, but her knees shook so violently that she settled on crawling to the framed glass. 

            It was her face, but not the face she saw last night while playing dress up with her dead mother’s clothes. From bottom eyelid to cheek were ugly red scabs trailing like a river bed before tapering off to smooth skin. It was as if someone took a knife to her, but she had no memory of weapons.

            Trembling fingers reached for the first mark, and her body went cold all over. She touched the skin around it. It was sore, but otherwise felt normal. Slow, slow, her fingers came together, running along the divot. It burned to the touch. She didn’t pull away until she could feel her thoughts fuzz white.

            “Like static.”

            The words came from her mouth, but it wasn’t her voice. Not quite. Not as she remembered.

            “Bad reception. Something happened.”

            Different bits and pieces came back to her. Her tears were acid. They were acid and they ate through her cheeks and through his hand and through the wood. And then…and then…

            “And then what, Allyson? What did you do?”

            But it hadn’t been her. There was something else in the room with them.

            “It came from the shadows.”

            From the shadows in the hall, from the shadows in the floor, she wasn’t sure where for certain, but she knew it wasn’t from the light. It was hard to see at first, but it was there.

            “And it killed him.”

            There was no weight to the words. She told herself it was just the shock; that really she did care that her father was no more. But the more she thought about it, the less certain she was. With that uncertainty came and eerie sort of calm that she clung to like a lifeline.

            “You deserved it, you know.”

            Allyson sat on the floor for another good look of what remained of the thing she called Daddy. There was a hard lump in her throat that was hard to breathe past, and forced something that felt like a sob but sounded like a laugh. No one would believe it, not even if they saw it. Spiders shriveled when dead; not people. Not that fast. 

            “You were bad and you deserved all the bad things in the world,” she told the corpse. “You can’t just hurt people when you’re mad at them. You can’t just scream at them. There are consequences, Roger. And when you do bad, you have to suck it up and deal with the consequences.”

            For the first time since she could remember, she felt bigger than him. She held onto that sudden empowerment as tight as she possibly could, but it didn’t come as naturally as portrayed in the movies. Her grip was slippery.

            “Fuck,” she whispered against her open palm. “No one deserves to die.”

            The shock was wearing off, and fast. She didn’t hate him. Sometimes, she even loved him. It was a sort of sick game, she supposed, trying to win his affection, but they got by. He was all she knew, and now he was gone.

            Allyson stood and paced around his body. This couldn’t be real. Demons did not crawl from the depths of hell to claim the souls God had no need for. Human beings did not dissolve away to skin and bones. 

            And yet, there he lay. Empty eye sockets. Mocking her.

            Why did it feel so natural, so at home, when the beast from under the house smiled at her with those razor sharp teeth?

            “He probably died of a heart attack or a stroke or alcohol poisoning or a brain aneurysm and I made up the rest to make it interesting.”

            In fact, she should pick up the phone right now and dial the police or an ambulance or somebody to come make sense of the situation for her. Maybe an adult would have better luck wrapping their mind around it.

            She grabbed the corded receiver, her fingers hovered over the buttons, and she froze. If she involved adults, her fate was sealed. Not because she would be blamed, for no one in their right mind would believe a girl so young capable of such atrocities, but because she’d become a kid of the state. Allyson had no relatives that she knew of, and she’d seen enough classmates playing the foster home game to know what she’d be getting herself into.

            Besides, there was still the matter of the body. The recently deceased were supposed to have meat on them. Her father simply did not. She didn’t want to deal with the questions when she herself was still trying to figure out the details.

            Then again…

            “Bingo.”

            It was common knowledge around town that Roger was a recluse. A homebody. A deadbeat drunk on disability. It was a rare occasion to see him anywhere but the liquor store, and most times he’d send Allyson with his list anyway.

            It was possible, fully possible, to pull it off without anyone knowing he was missing at all.

            “He was already a ghost to them.”

            What did it matter if his body was above ground or below?

            “Speaking of which…”

            The house was on the outskirts; the last house before acres of farmland. Even if someone drove by, they wouldn’t be able to see the backyard through the weeds and trash littered about. Even so, she’d wait until the safety of nightfall. Until then, she’d move him closer to the back door. 

            It just didn’t seem right to watch tv in the same room as a corpse.

            Allyson couldn’t bring herself to touch him. She imagined his skin would feel like a plastic bag holding wet sand, with some bits crunchy as dried leaves. She was afraid of him splitting open or crumbling away.

            With an old towel to protect her hand from direct contact, she grasped his ankles and pulled. It was like moving furniture. Heavy at first, but with a little momentum, everything went fairly smooth.

            The closer she got to the door, the more aware she was of the sounds from outside. It sounded like a dog fight. A cat fight? She couldn’t be certain, but whatever it was sounded mean. Had they just started in, or did she just start paying attention?

            All her worries of a piece of her father snagging on a splintered piece of floorboard were unfounded. The only part of him that managed to work its way loose was a single tooth. She’d not have noticed had she not stepped on it in the middle of the kitchen.

Arms still shaky from exertion, she knelt down and cradled it in her hand. She meant to walk to the trash and toss it away, but her outstretched palm couldn’t bring itself to rotate. It didn’t seem right to put it there. Later she’d bring herself to believe that it was for her own safety. What if someone at the dump rifled through the bag and found the tooth? No, too risky. Instead, she placed it in the pocket of her dirty sundress.

            “I’ll figure out what to do with it later.”

            Burying it with the body crossed her mind, but she shoved it aside, convinced it was likewise risky business. Her fingerprints were all over it now. Then they’d know.

            “Know what?”

            A problem for a different day. For now, she was proud of a job well done. She walked to the living room and went to the chair—his chair. She flicked through the channels until she landed on something as dark and foreign as her current state of mind.

***

Photo by Jan Koetsier on Pexels.com

Jeezums. Does she have your attention?

I would love to hear what you think. Good, bad, let me hear it!

Come back November 8th for chapter three. And don’t forget to subscribe!!