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Acknowledgments
To my parents, who had the grace not to murder me when I told them I wanted to be a novelist instead of a veterinarian. Mom, you’re the best editor, advisor for weird medical injury questions, and personal cheerleader on the planet. Dad, your constant badgering forced me to take my work seriously and grow up in one fell swoop. You both rock.
To Sharon: no one else has understood the stuff I smash onto the pages better than you. You’ve made me realize things about this novel that I never would have seen on my own. You deserve all the credit for helping edit this monstrosity and helping me make these characters better than they would have been without you.
To Bryan: you had the patience to brave the twisted labyrinth that is my work and for that I am eternally grateful.
To Andy Rattinger: you are the writing sensei I pray that every young writer can stumble across someday. Your advice is invaluable (literally, because I can’t pay you yet). I have no idea how you put up with my incessant questions and lack of self-confidence, but you did and I will never forget it. (Nor will I forget all the nagging. Just wait until I get famous. I’m going to get you back, you son of a bitch.)
To my family: your support is worth more than all the diamonds in the world and ten times more precious. You could have smashed my dreams into pieces, but you stood by me through all my awkwardness and self-doubt and helped me become stronger. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.
To my nakama: I’d be nothing without your support. You are my bones. I’d have no legs to stand on without you. Thanks for hanging in there with my spastic ass.
To Jennifer Troemner: You have the eyes of a hawk. I could not have asked for a better editor. Thank you, madam.
To Gunjan Kumar: the cover of this novel is breathtaking, striking, and exhilarating. You brought everything to it that I could have ever hoped for. Thank you.
To my readers: you picked up this silly novel and read it and if it were possible, I’d shake your hand and buy you coffee and ask you about your life. I value you more than I could ever explain because you took a chance on some skinny, weird, self-deprecating, Chandler Bing-esque nerd with a story she thought no one could ever care about. I truly hope you enjoyed what you read and were able to take something away from it, no matter how small.
-Kyoko
Author’s Note
The most common question circulating in the writing world is, ‘Why do you write?’
The short answer is because I’ve always dreamt of having a career that involves lying pantsless in bed fooling around on my laptop all day. Also, sarcasm and pretty men.
The long answer is because I bleed words. I ooze them from every pore. I can’t shut up, no matter what I try. Writing is like breathing. I do it constantly, without thought, without regard for who notices, without limitations or permission. I have done it since I was a kid, which my parents will attest to thanks to the mile-high piles of boxes stuffed with faded notebook paper currently rotting away in storage somewhere in Atlanta, Georgia. I was a weird kid. Most girls wanted to grow up to be ballerinas or doctors or lawyers.
I wanted to be Catwoman.
And in many ways, I still do. But since Anne Hathaway beat me to the punch, I’ll just have to stick with being an author slash novelist slash aspiring amalgamation of Richard Castle, Chuck Wendig, and Liz Lemon. Which, come to think of it, ain’t too bad.
Er, I had a point somewhere, hold on, let me go find it.
Ah, there we are. Writing is hard. And painful. Not like stubbing your toe kind of painful—like cut open your shirt and shove a red-hot katana through your spinal column hard. It’s a daily grind. It’s insanity bottled up inside your brain meats. There are so many better writers out there and it’s terrifying to think you can ever compete with any of the greats, from novels to screenplays to television scripts to comic books—King, Koontz, Patterson, Cannell, Marlowe, O’Neill, Straczynski, Moore, Dini, Timm, McDuffie, Nolan, Butcher—but you still have to grit your teeth, strap on your creativity cap, and smash the keyboard until it cries for mercy. I admit it is far less painful if you have a support system of some sort. Blood-related or nakama, being a writer isn’t a solo mission. You need back up. You need a crew to your Malcolm Reynolds-ing. Find it. Do it. Now. Get to the choppah!
Ahem, sorry, I’m done with the references, I swear. Point being, I write because real life is not enough to satisfy me. I write the things that keep me up at night—sex, murder, ghosts, the afterlife, faith, redemption, loneliness, hatred, and tears. I write the things I love and despise. The things I want and the things I need but don’t get. And I think that’s the way it should be. Some people paint. Some people dance. Some people glue together thousands of Popsicle sticks and make beautiful lamps like my grandfather used to.
Me? I write.
And I hope that’s enough to keep me going.
…y’know, until Nathan Fillion meets me and realizes I am his soulmate.
Just kidding.
Mostly.
Thank you for reading. You are the stars in the night sky that I reach for every time I open a Word document, or jot down an idea on a sheet of paper, or scribble on cheap copy paper. Never forget the power of words. They can save you.
After all, they saved me.
Love always,
Kyoko
Read on for a special preview of
She Who Fights Monsters
Book Two of The Black Parade series
By Kyoko M
Available for only $2.99!
There was a stranger in my house.
I knew it wasn’t Trent and Marie. They had taken a father-daughter trip to the beach. My duties as a kindergarten teacher didn’t allow me the luxury of a three-day vacation, nor did the ridiculous cold I’d caught, and so I had stayed home by myself.
Normally, I would just shake it off as house-settling noise but there was one slat in the kitchen’s hardwood floor near the stove that made an unmistakable creak if you stepped on it. No way in hell I could shake that off, not when I was home alone.
I slipped from beneath the comforter and knelt beside the bed, my fingers finding the cool metal of my trusty baseball bat. My daughter was only seven years old and I wouldn’t let Trent bring a gun into my home so we agreed to this as our form of protection. Ears straining, I opened the bedroom door, praying the hinges remained silent, and tiptoed to the stairs. Silence. A normal person would go back to their room and sleep, but there was a cold feeling in my chest that whispered something was wrong.
The carpet was soft under my bare feet as I crept down the steps one by one. The staircase spilled into the foyer and the front door was still locked. No broken glass or muddy footprints. I turned to the left and peeked around the corner to see into the living room. Every shadow looked like an intruder. I knew it was just my paranoid brain going into overdrive so I ignored it and carefully maneuvered past the den to the dining room. Nothing here either. That left the kitchen.
I pressed my back against the wall, closing my eyes and saying a quick prayer that I was just a hyper vigilant crazy lady before darting around the corner.
The kitchen was empty.
I licked my dry lips and snuck over to the double doors that spilled out onto the patio and the backyard. I pushed the curtain aside. Darkness greeted me. Nothing more. False alarm. I was indeed a hyper vigilant crazy lady.
I started to lower the bat and turn around but then I felt something cold and wet on the bottom of my foot, between my bare toes. Confused, I knelt and touched it with my fingertips but as soon as I was close, the smell hit me even through my stuffy nose.
Gasoline.
Then the floorboard creaked again.
I whirled around. A man stood there swathed in shadows and black clothing, but that isn’t what caught my attention.
He was holding a gigantic scythe.
I screamed as he swung it at me and threw myself into a front roll. The enormous blade crashed throu
gh the window in the back door, sending glittering shards all over the floor. I scrambled backwards on my hands and knees until my back hit the legs of the table and then got up, hefting the bat at the intruder.
“Who are you? What are you doing in my house?”
His voice was so soft I almost didn’t hear it. “I am sorry, but your death is necessary for the safety of mankind. Please forgive me.”
“I’ll forgive you when you get the hell out of my house!” I yelled, swinging at his head. He blocked the blow with the staff—a smooth, effortless move—and I stumbled backwards, my eyes darting around to look for the closest route of escape. He had already knocked the back door partially open but he stood a few inches to the left of it, barring any chances of me reaching outside. I could make a break for the front door, but it would leave my back vulnerable. Shit!
I kept swinging, hoping to corral him away from the door, but he merely blocked the blows and stood his ground, never turning into the light so I could see his face. All I could see was a fedora, a black leather jacket, and gloves on his hands. Desperation began to set in and with it came the blind hope that I could talk him out of his homicidal intentions.
“Why do you want to kill me? What did I ever do to you?”
“Nothing,” the man said, adjusting his hold on the weapon. “It is what you may do to the world someday. Human beings have such a poor perception of time and fate. Your death is for the greater good—to prevent the Apocalypse itself.”
I shook my head, hating the hot tears pouring down my cheeks. “You’re crazy.”
“No. I am prepared.”
“Get away from me!” I kicked the table over and shoved it towards him, making him jump back. I raced for the front door, my feet pounding against the hardwood floor as I ran, and grabbed the doorknob. I yanked on it as hard as I could, but it wouldn’t budge. He had somehow jammed it from the other side, trapping me in like a mouse in a snake pit. No more options. I would have to face him and look my death straight in the eye.
Only he didn’t give me the chance.
The blade tore through my spinal column as if it had been made of paper. The tip burst out of my rib cage. My world dissolved into pain for a few seconds, but then a blessed numb cascaded over me. My brain faintly realized the shock blocked out what should have been an excruciating death.
He stepped backward and I slid off his blade, collapsing on my back. Blood bubbled out of me in crimson rivulets, tainting my husband’s t-shirt. How unfair. He’d have to see my corpse wearing it when he came home.
The stranger reached into his pocket and withdrew a lighter, flicking his thumb to awaken a single orange flame. I watched him light the gasoline that had been poured at the base of every wall in my beautiful home, watched the paintings and furniture become engulfed in fire, watched the fire slowly creep closer to my dying body. The stranger pressed one cold, gloved finger to my forehead and made a cross, his voice constantly murmuring the same words over and over again. The cadence of his voice made the chanting stay with me until the last spark of life snuffed out and everything dissolved into darkness.
Marlowe, Christopher. Doctor Faustus. 1604.
Milton, John. Paradise Lost. 1667.
Shakespeare, William. Hamlet. The Life and Death of King Richard III. 1591. 1600-02.
Sophocles. Antigone. Oedipus Rex. 429 BCE. 441 BC.
Yeats, W.B. “A Cradle Song”. 1899.
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