by Sarah Wynde
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
If you’re reading this, I hope it means that you enjoyed Akira’s story. (I suppose it could also mean that you’re one of those people that check the ending to be sure you’ll like it before starting to read. I admit, I’m one of those, too, so go ahead, click back a page. You can read this later if you make it this far.)
You know how some authors say that they always wanted to write? That they’ve been scribbling in notebooks their whole life? That it was everything they’d ever dreamed about?
I am not one of them.
Oh, sure, every few years I’d try to write. I love to read and I’m a compulsive daydreamer, so writing is a natural fit. Unfortunately, I’m also tough on myself. I wrote, I read, I hated, I ripped up (and then later, hit delete). And after each failed attempt, I wouldn’t write for years.
Then I discovered fan fiction. And with it, an audience of wonderful, supportive, enthusiastic fellow writers and readers. I wrote about a quarter of a million words of fan fiction before turning to original fiction, and received well over a thousand reviews. I’m not going to list the name of every person who wrote a review (admit it, you’d stop reading!), but I did want to take this opportunity to say thank you: thank you, thank you, thank you, to everyone who ever reviewed my fics—you gave me the courage to believe in my stories, even when I was sure the words weren’t doing the story justice.
Thank you, more specifically, to Allyrien aka Rachel (my chapters don’t feel real until you tell me what you think of them); to Sara aka Justine (you give me faith that my words work in my most doubting moments); and to Zero aka Tim (a parenthetical is not nearly enough room to appreciate your endless patience and willingness to consult on tone and structure, punctuation and male psychology.)
When I started writing original fiction, I posted chapters to fictionpress.com. Leaving my lovely little fan community for the world of original fiction was a lot like being kicked out of a nest (although I suppose I jumped, really), and I want to thank everyone who reviewed A Gift of Ghosts while it was in progress. So thank you, so much, to Everis, Nereemac, JMill, DonHanz, Amy, Kat, Shayna-18, Kaypgirl, AlternateShadesofBlue, RyaJynx, Darlove99, Lorina Lee Belmont218, Heather, Ann Barthel, Hoshi14, Magz, Miisu, World of Ink, Purplelover, Luckycool9, Ahrendaaria, FamishedNight, Bittie752, Far Wanderer, Cat Parmegiani, Ruki44, Bird That Flies At Dawn, Hatondog, Lonnee, and Shineyma. Your encouragement kept me going.
I also posted chapters to Critique Circle. I need to say first of all that every adverb, every use of the word “was,” and every misplaced comma are mine, all mine, and the people who generously critiqued my work bear no responsibility for the above. That said, I’d like to thank MikeKent, MimiWriter, Harleyquin, Katamuki, LornaB, Jaylia, Mpolish, KSullivan, Baker, Egryphon, and Wim for their insight and feedback.
Jaime Norwood’s comments were exactly what I needed to hear: whether it was point of view issues or doubts about tone, Jaime, your concrete, insightful assistance made this a better book. Christine Pearson, your character analysis helped me enormously, and Maggie Sharp (the world’s nicest sister-in-law!), your questions made for some great last-minute tweaks. Thank you all so much!
Finally, I want to thank my sister, Karen Lowery, for reading what I write and telling me I’m wonderful. Our mom asked me once why I’d never given her anything of mine to read, and I told her it was because I already knew she would read it and tell me it was wonderful and that she loved it and that she was proud of me, and so I was okay with letting her skip the actual reading part. I didn’t let my sister skip the actual reading part, but I still appreciate the unconditional support she gives me. Thanks, Karen!
Cover art: Lightning Strike by Adam Weeden. Image from public-domain-image.com
Cover design: Wendy Sharp
PREVIEW OF A GIFT OF THOUGHT
Coming June 2012
The airport was already decorated for Christmas.
If Dillon had still been alive, he would have said something wry and sarcastic, about the materialism of contemporary American society, about Christmas as an excuse to sell stuff, about cheap glitter being no way to celebrate light into darkness.
As it was, though, he kind of liked it.
He’d spent the first several years of his afterlife trapped in the place he’d died: a black Ford Taurus. He supposed he was lucky, really. He’d spent many an hour thinking about other places he could have been stuck, and although everywhere had its pros and cons, at least his car moved occasionally.
Middle of the forest: pro, out in nature, birds and animals to watch, but con, no people, no conversation. Ocean: pro, nice scenery, maybe even some fish to watch, but con, boring after a while. Urban street corner: pro, lots of people, but con, all moving quickly. Dentist office: pro, people, but con, um, dentist? Bottom of a mine shaft: pro . . . none. Yeah, haunting a car wasn’t nearly as bad as it could get.
But he was no longer trapped. Last winter he’d met a woman, Akira, who could talk to ghosts. She’d introduced him to some other ghosts and (although it was mostly an accident) helped him break his tie to his car. Meeting Akira was the best thing that had ever happened to Dillon, both in life and in afterlife.
Now that he was free of the Taurus, though, he was ready to do some exploring. Life—or afterlife—had to have more to offer than hanging out with Akira in the same small town in which he’d grown up.
He’d decided to start by travelling with his father, Lucas, for a while. Okay, so maybe that wasn’t exactly ambitious. But he’d never really had a chance to get to know his dad back when he was alive. As fathers go, Lucas had been one of the “fun guy who sweeps in for an action packed weekend and then disappears again” type.
Dillon wasn’t complaining, though. At least his dad showed up for Christmas and his birthday. Dillon had never even met his mom. When he was a month old, she’d dropped him off at his grandparents so they could babysit while she went shopping, and no one had seen her since. His dad wouldn’t talk about it and his gran got sad when he asked her about it, but his grandpa had told him the story. They’d found the letter hidden inside a diaper at the bottom of the diaper bag long after they’d called the police, the hospitals, even the morgue.
Dillon didn’t blame her for leaving. She’d been awfully young. His dad had been even younger. Dillon didn’t much like to think about it, but when he’d died, he’d been as old as his dad was when he was born. It probably wasn’t any wonder that his grandparents had raised him.
So, yeah, he’d decided to get to know his dad better. Maybe it’d be a little weird for Lucas, having his ghost kid travelling with him, but Dillon had told Akira what he planned to do and she’d told Lucas and Lucas hadn’t objected. And Dillon had learned how to use his ghostly spirit energy to send text messages—although it was tough work, and took a lot of power—so he’d be able to send his dad the occasional message to let him know he was still around.
He was mystified, though, by how their trip was starting. Why were they in the Orlando airport on the day after Thanksgiving? His dad travelled a lot but not usually on commercial flights. The family company, General Directions, owned several planes: one fancy corporate jet that could cross oceans, and several smaller private planes for shorter hops. Was something wrong with them?
Dillon wanted to ask Lucas what was going on. The crowds were crazy. The lines wound back and forth, back and forth, through the huge open space with the gigantic screen of arriving and departing flights. Why would his dad put himself through this?
But sending a text was too much effort, so instead Dillon stuck as close to Lucas as he could. Sometimes that meant walking through people. Most of them didn’t notice, but he wondered if one wide-eyed little boy in Mickey Mouse ears could actually see him. The perplexed look on the boy’s face made him grin and pause, but when he realized Lucas had gotten several people away, Dillon hurried after his dad.
It wouldn’t be a big deal if he got stuck at the airport, he told himself.
Admittedly, home was several hours away by car, so it’d be a long walk. But, hey, he had nothing but time. Still, he’d rather not lose his dad quite so early in their trip.
Ah, there he was.
Lucas swung his bag onto the conveyor belt, and dropped the contents of his pockets into a plastic bin. In classic security theater mode, he slipped out of his shoes, and dropped them and the coat he was carrying into another bin. Pacing forward barefoot, he stepped through the gate of the metal detector, the bored TSA agent barely registering his presence. But as Dillon followed him through, the detector started beeping wildly.
Oops.
The guard waved Lucas back while Dillon waited on the other side of the detector. If Akira had been here, she probably could have explained what just happened scientifically, but apparently his ghostly electromagnetic field energy messed with the metal detector. Next time, he’d walk around on the other side of the carry-on belt.
Lucas walked through the detector again, his expression revealing nothing of his thoughts. Dillon wondered whether his dad realized what had happened and that Dillon had set off the machine. This time, though, the detector was silent.
Too silent, Dillon realized, as the guard frowned and gestured to another uniformed man. While the second security officer ran the handheld wand over Lucas’s clothes, the first held out a hand for his travel documents.
Lucas obediently passed them over without comment, then smiled and said to the guard in front of him, “Busy day today. You guys should get holiday pay.”
“That’d be nice, wouldn’t it?” The guard said as he finished.
He stepped back and away, and glanced at the first guard who shrugged and handed Lucas’s paperwork back with a casual, “Here you go, Mr. Murray. Have a safe flight.”
Murray?
Lucas’s last name was Latimer, just like Dillon’s.
As they walked away from the security checkpoint and boarded the monorail that would take them to the gate, Dillon’s mind was racing. Why was his father traveling under a false identity?
What the hell was going on?