Title- Aqua
By- M.A. George
Genre- YA Paranormal
Publication Date- April 16th,
2014
Available From:
Add it to your TBR list:
Blurb-
Meet Layla McKelland:
Novelist (unpublished, but cut her some slack…seventeen is a
bit early to despair),
Slightly neurotic introvert (Alright, let's be
honest…there's no "slightly" about it),
International Woman of Mystery, and…
Okay, just scratch the bio.
The only real "mystery" in Layla's life is why her father
has never been on the scene. Or why her
mother drags Layla to a new coastal home every year.
Nothing about the latest hometown seems too newsworthy…until
a routine day at the beach leaves Layla questioning whether she's read one too
many paranormal fantasy novels. The plot
thickens when a random guy claims to know things about her father-a bizarre
claim he backs up with an equally impossible stunt. And Layla soon finds herself on the wrong
side of a mysterious attempted drowning…on her own kitchen floor.
When all is done, Layla will attest that fact is far
stranger than fiction. And nothing in
real life is ever as transparent as it seems…Not even water.
Especially not
water.
Second Excerpt - From Chapter 2
It
takes about five minutes-maybe seven-to pretty much see the whole town. I don't have too much interest in visiting
the tourist stops (although the T-shirt shop with a giant shark-tunnel entrance
definitely intrigues me), so I follow the signs to the public beach and park in
the line of cars forming in the sand. I slip
my hair into a ponytail and loop my beach bag over a shoulder, pretending to
push down the broken door lock as I step from the car.
A
steady current of wind blows back my hair and peppers my ankles with sand, as I
pause to survey the scalloped white lines of foam in their rhythmic surges along
the coastline. My breath automatically
falls into beat with the waves, the familiar taste of salt glazing my
lips. A few seagulls bob overhead,
riding the wind stream as they shamelessly hit me up for food with a chatter of
caws. They give up on me quickly, moving
along to an older couple setting up their lawn chairs down by the water. It's not as crowded as I'm sure it will be
soon; but even so, there are more people than I'd like. I was hoping to get some writing done, and
people in general tend to mess with my focus.
(At least, that's the argument I used when I convinced Mom to let me
homeschool a few years back.) Never mind
that I'm socially inept…or more accurately, I fail to see the point in being
social. First I'm the "new girl", then
I'm the "weird girl with her nose stuck in a book". Eventually, I become the "Hmm…She might actually be worth talking to"
girl. And before you know it, I'm the
"girl who disappeared over summer break"…a.k.a. the "What was that girl's name
again?" girl.
So,
in my typical hermit style, I search out the least populated place on the
beach-which at this particular moment appears to be the jetty-and make my way
there with my beach bag in tow. The
jetty is basically a long, straight concrete sidewalk that dead-ends somewhere
far out in the water ahead of me. Either
side of the sidewalk is flanked by huge granite blocks-at least five or six of
them to each side-some of which have toppled over into the water, with just one
corner barely peeking up through the surface.
I pass a few men camped out in chairs with their ice chests and fishing
poles, some little kids climbing over the rocks while their parents dangle
their feet off the edge of the walkway, and a couple of girls that look about
my age laying on the rocks to soak up the sun.
I slip quietly by, continuing farther out along the jetty, reaching the
point where the concrete sidewalk ends and is replaced by only the massive
granite blocks. They march out in a
wide, craggy line ahead of me, a seemingly endless path out into the sea. I only see two more people out ahead-two guys
who passed me on my way out, flipping a football between them as they trotted
from one boulder to the next. They just
seem to be bumming around on the rocks now, watching the ships drift by. So I stop a ways before I reach them and pick
out a spot amid the rugged boulders, nestling into a crack and leaning my back
against the sun-warmed stone. It takes
me a few minutes to get myself situated, sitting cross-legged with flip-flops
kicked off, ear buds feeding me a steady stream of tunes while I put pen to
notepad.
It
typically doesn't take long before I'm lost in a fictional world of my own
making. A world where rules can be
bent-be they rules of society, relationships, or reality as we know it-and my
characters can speak as though they took the time to choose each word carefully
(unlike myself in real life, who usually just blurts out whatever comes first
to my mind). But for some reason right
now, my characters aren't saying much of anything. They're unusually quiet in my head, and
getting two sentences down on the page feels like pulling teeth. Evidently I'm doing a poor job of looking
hard at work, and a squeaky little voice appears behind me.
"Whatcha
doing?"
I
look up over my shoulder to see a girl in a pink and white striped swimsuit and
bare feet standing over me, water dripping from the ends of her golden
ringlets, as curious blue eyes study the notebook in my lap. I pull one bud from my ear-squinting into the
sunlight framing her face-and put on a polite smile. "I'm just writing some stuff…What're you doing?" She can't be more than seven or eight, and I
search from the corner of my eye to figure out where her parents have gone off
to. I think she belongs to the couple
with their feet dangling out over the water; and I can barely make them out in
their same spot a good fifty yards down the way. "Do your mom and dad know you came all the
way out here?"
She
shrugs, clearly not concerned with the consequences one way or the other. "You're pretty." She flashes a gap-toothed grin, and I can't
believe I actually blush. "I like your
long hair. I wish mine would grow that
long…but Mama makes me get it cut when it starts getting all tangly."
"Well,
I think you have very lovely curls…If I had curls like that, I wouldn't need to
grow my hair so long to be pretty." I
wink with a smile, and her little face beams with pride. Before she has a chance to strike up a whole
new line of conversation, I move to put my ear bud back in its place. Just before it plugs up my ear and drowns out
the wind noise, I nod my head toward the distant couple with another friendly
smile. "I think you'd better get back to
your parents…I don't want to get you in trouble."
She
looks back and debates my suggestion for a second, ultimately deciding she's
not in the mood to get into trouble, when she sees her mom beckoning with a
wave of her arms. "See ya!" She skips off, jumping from one jagged
boulder to the next, and I can't help but watch to make sure she lands safely
back with her family.
Once
I've watched them pack up and make their way back to the beach, my eyes wander
out to a massive oil tanker crawling along through the distant waves, and then
on to an egret perched out on one of the rocks.
Apparently it's just not a good day for writing…I'm distracted beyond
repair. I toss my notebook back in the
bag and kick my feet up on one of the rocks.
The jetty seems to be filling up with more people closer in to the beach,
so I keep my back turned that way and crank up the volume while I stare out to
sea. The two guys about twenty yards
ahead of me are still the only other people out this far, and they don't seem
to be paying me any attention. They look
about nineteen or twenty-though one of them is apparently trying to pull off an
older look with a feeble attempt at a lumberjack beard. It covers his face and dangles down an inch
or two; but it has that scraggly look, like his follicles just aren't quite man
enough to muster a faceful of hair. That
being said, he's certainly got the creepy look mastered. His entire body is draped in tattoos, with
thick dark brown hair matted against his forehead down to his brow line; and I
can't be sure from here, but I think he's got at least half a dozen
piercings. That alone doesn't
necessarily make him menacing…It's the combination of the slightly crazed look
in his dark eyes, his gaunt limbs with every vein and sinew of muscle showing
beneath the skin, and his actual choice of tattoos-for example, the
anatomy-textbook heart pierced by a shard of broken rib adorning his chest
(complete with fountaining blood)-that takes it a tad over the top. Even his black swim trunks are a little
sketchy…One of the legs is so torn up and frayed at the bottom that it's a good
three inches shorter than the other.
By
comparison, his friend looks downright GQ.
His curls are cut short, leaving just enough length to frame his head in
haphazard chocolate-brown whorls. His
bold, solid-red boardshorts seem to be brand new and completely intact, though
possibly in danger of sliding right off if he doesn't hike them back up pretty
soon. Evidently, he's a little too proud
of those abs to buy a swimsuit that actually stays up. When he spins and jumps to catch the football
his Sasquatch buddy just passed, I unconsciously squint my eyes closed for fear
I'll be gawking the moment those trunks hit his ankles. After a few seconds pass, I make the mistake
of prying my eyelids back open, only to meet his gaze as he throws a
self-satisfied smirk my way. Ugh.
I roll my eyes, just in case there's any doubt in his mind I'm not
interested, and debate whether to call out that he needs to pull up his
drawers. Deciding I'm not actually a
cranky eighty-year-old man, I zip my lips, fishing back in my bag for my
notebook instead. I came here to write,
and that's precisely what I need to get back to doing.
Damn
characters don't want to say a bleepity-blapping thing. And I can't even get a good visual on the
scenery. I slam the notebook closed with
a muffled snarl, and toss it back into the bag.
I try to hold my eyes on the seagulls drifting overhead; but my gaze
shifts against my will back to the two guys, who seem to have wrapped up their
ball game. The curly-haired "Check out
my abs" one is sprawled out face-up on one of the granite blocks, either
staring up at the cloudless sky or dozing off for a nap. I can't quite see his eyes from here to tell
the difference. And his Wookie-faced
friend is sitting a couple boulders away, tossing pebbles into the water.
Fascinating.
Clearly
the writing inspiration isn't going to come from these two, so I shift mental
gears and fish around in my bag for a book.
I always carry at least two or three to choose from, and my hand lands
first on a ratty paperback copy of The
Fellowship of the Ring. I've read it
far too many times to avoid the creased covers; and it's kind of become a
source of pride that it's so worn down, it might fall apart at any second. I don't even bother starting at the
beginning, I just crack open to a random chapter and start reading. I'm about a chapter and a half in, reaching
up to flip the page as the wind picks up the corner for me, when my peripheral
vision catches sight of Mr. Lumberjack Crack Addict wading out into the
water. He stands atop one of the
submerged boulders, little waves splashing against his tattooed ankle, staring
off into the distant sea. My eyes shift
to search the empty horizon-admittedly curious what he's staring so intently
at-and just as I drift back to his scruffy windblown beard, he springs from the
rock and dives out into the water.
Nothing too earthshattering about a guy diving into the ocean…except I'm
pretty sure he didn't jump nearly far enough out to clear all the boulders
hidden under the water's surface. I
lower my book to my lap, sitting up straight with unblinking eyes trained on
the water, where I just saw his ankle tattoo disappear under the surface.
And
I count.
One,
one thousand…Two, one thousand….Three, one thousand…
I
make it to twenty, then thirty, and there hasn't been a sign of him. Not a bubble, not a splash-not a Chewbacca
face poking up from the surface to catch a lungful of air-and my pulse ratchets
up with the adrenaline-laced panic beginning to course through my veins. I yank the buds from my ears and spring to my
feet, widening my search radius; but still no hairy head or black-inked feet in
sight. The only soul in the area is his
pretty-boy buddy, who's apparently sawing logs on a rock while his friend
drowns with a broken neck.
"Hey!" I bellow, taking off in a barefoot run over
the uneven blocks of stone. "Hey, wake
up! I think your friend is drowning!"
He
doesn't even acknowledge that I'm hollering my lungs out. He just reaches up to dust his nose, rolling
a sleepy head to face the other direction.
"Hey!"
I clamber over the craggy blocks, doing my best to run without
misstepping my way into a tumbling head injury of my own. "Wake your ass up!" Another wave of
adrenaline surges through me, as my eyes dart back to the eerily calm
water. Still no sign of that guy
anywhere, and my stomach lurches with the mental image of a lifeless body
rising to the surface. Apparently I'm
living proof that a lifeguard certification doesn't keep you from crapping your
pants when faced with a real-life drowning.
A
million thoughts shoot through my brain as I leap from one rock to the
next…everything from What possessed me to
do this barefoot?, to Figures…The woolly
mammoth would be the one who needs mouth-to-mouth, to If this jackass lets his friend die while he's taking a nap, I might
have to personally send him to greet his buddy in the afterlife. As thought number three hits my mind, I
bellow out another screaming obscenity-laced snarl at Mr.
Look-At-Me-Sunbathing-While-My-Best-Bud-Kicks-The-Bucket. Apparently he finally hears me, rising up on
one elbow to shoot me a confused grimace.
I only half take notice, too busy focusing on the expanse of sea that
I'm now convinced has become a watery tomb.
And whether it's because I'm distracted by the way my heart rises up in
a thundering lump in my throat-or because I'm too pissed off at GQ Boy to see
straight-I trip on the edge of a boulder, the skin that used to be attached to
my shin now scoured off by the jagged rock.
I wince with another string of snarling profanity, clambering back to my
feet to continue my sprint over the last few remaining yards between here and
ground zero.
Evidently,
the blood trickling down my leg gets Clueless Pretty Boy's attention, and he
hops to his feet to intersect my course.
I'm too busy panting a half-panicked, half-furious tirade to pay him any
notice, darting around him as he tries to get my attention. "What are you doing? Slow down…You're bleeding!" His face screws up in a dumbfounded twist, as
he tries to grab hold of my arm.
"Your
friend is drowning, you moron!" I
don't look back, wriggling myself free of his grasp. "You might consider making yourself
useful." I'm crouching down to wade out
into the water, stumbling again as my bare foot slips on the slimy granite; and
before I know it, both legs have slid out from under me. Like a classic cartoon banana-peel gag, I'm
going down back-first against the sloping face of a slick-wet boulder. I know the pain is coming, and I reflexively
grit my teeth and squint my eyes closed as my every muscle tenses. I'm three inches from going head-to-head with
a block of granite, when a hand swoops in and cradles the back of my skull before
it cracks against the stone. Another
hand is gripping around my upper arm; and before I can utter one of the dozen
obscenities that come to mind, I'm being yanked from the water and dragged back
up onto the jetty.
"What
on Earth are you thinking?" I can't see Pretty Boy's face, but I
recognize his voice as he sets me down on my butt atop one of the flat granite
slabs. "Do you realize that's how people
end up dead?"
"No,
Jackass," I scramble back to my feet, refusing to even look his way, "I enjoy
cracking my skull open trying to single-handedly rescue the friend you clearly
don't give a flip about." I'm already
charging back toward the water, this time crouching lower to keep from losing
my footing when the rocks turn slick with underwater slime.
I'm
knee-deep in the waves, wincing as the salty water laps against my bloody shin,
when that same hand grabs around my upper arm, accompanied by a sour
reprimand. "Would you please stop trying to give me a heart
attack, and get back up there and explain yourself?" I can feel his scolding glare on my face, as
the corner of my eye makes out an angry arc of eyebrow underlining his
deeply-creased forehead. I refuse to
meet his eyes, shrugging to jerk my arm free of his hold as my foot inches
forward on the slick stone. His fingers
tighten their grip, his other arm suddenly circling around my waist. He abruptly plucks me backward from the water
and balances me up on one shoulder, scaling back up to the top of the
jetty.
"Would
you stop doing that?" I snarl, as he
sets me down atop the same granite slab.
"The clock is ticking, and I'm trying
to save a drowning victim!"
"What drowning victim?" He bends over me
with a scowl, squatting down to press my shoulder back down as I fight to get
to my feet.
"Your
friend, you moron!" I try to push him aside with a stiff arm to
his chest.
"What friend?" He refuses to budge. "The one standing two feet behind you,
wondering which insane asylum you've escaped from?"
I
whip my head around and jerk with surprise like I've been hit with a cattle
prod. A freakishly terrorized shriek
escapes me, at the sight of tattooed Chewbacca standing just behind my right
shoulder. The grungy dark brown hair is
half-covering his eyes; but even so, I can see the look of consternation in
them. He thinks I've lost my marbles.
And
apparently I have.
"You're
not even wet…" My muttering voice barely
carries over the wind, a sharp contrast to the horrified screech that still
hangs in the air. "How are you not wet?" The frayed edge of faded black
fabric flaps at the hem of his swim trunks, dry as a bone. Dry as the hair on his head…the same head
that went first into the ocean, when he dove off the rocks not two minutes ago.
"What's
got her all unhinged?" He's curling one
pierced eyebrow, folding his inked arms with a flick of his woolly head my way.
GQ
lets out a sigh, finally loosening his grip on my left arm. "I don't know, Pyke…She seems to be under the
impression you were drowning."
Tattoo
Boy snorts out a short laugh, turning to toss a pebble into the water with a
shake of his hairy head. "Man, you sure
know how to pick 'em."
"Pike, is it?" I glare over my shoulder. "Like 'Spike', without the 'S'?" I puff out an incensed breath with a roll of
my eyes. "I busted my butt to save your
tattooed ass, and you're gonna talk about me like I'm beneath your
standards? At least I know how to use a
razor."
This
time Pretty Boy coughs out a chuckle, which he wisely stifles the second I
shoot him a narrow-eyed glare.
His
annoyingly creepy friend's voice returns behind me. "Yes…You busted your butt, and I didn't so
much as thank you." My head rotates back
to catch the smirk twisting his scraggly beard.
"So thank you for saving me from, ahem…drowning." He barely manages
to finish the sentence, before another snorting laugh overtakes him.
"That's
enough, Pyke," GQ cuts in with a serious edge in his voice. "Her intentions were noble." I turn back to follow his voice, searching
for a mocking smirk on his face. But his
eyes are surprisingly serious…Their golden brown rims catch the sun,
highlighting the starburst of green around his pupils. I have no idea why I'm studying his eyes
right now. It's possible I'm no longer
pissed off at him; but beyond that, I haven't settled on my current opinion of
him. And it doesn't help that now he's
looking at me with the apprehension of someone approaching a jumper on the
ledge. "Are you feeling calmer
now?...You were pretty worked up."
"Damn
straight I was 'pretty worked up'," I scoff.
"I watched a guy dive into shallow, rocky water head-first…and I'm still
not convinced he actually came up for air."
My forehead wrinkles as I hear my own words. "I realize that sounds absurd, but there it
is." I glance out the corner of a
squinted eye to double-check that those faded black swim trunks are definitely
dry. Yep…dry
as the Mojave Desert. I'm torn
between embarrassment and a spine-chilling shudder, as I rise to my feet and
start shuffling back toward my beach bag.
"Wait
a second…" GQ takes hold of my arm
again, this time with a gentler tug just to slow me down. "You're injured." He flicks his chin at my bleeding leg. "We need to get that cleaned up."
"It'll
be fine," I wave it off. "My mom will
descend upon me with a bottle of peroxide the second I hit the door."
He
seems genuinely concerned, but he lets out a little chuckle. I can't tell if it's a pity laugh, or if he's
honestly amused by my cynical reply. He
keeps step beside me as I meander back to my things, taking notice when I
glance over my shoulder to make sure his friend stays behind. As if he wasn't eerie enough to begin with,
the whole drowning-one-minute-and-perfectly-fine-the-next thing has sent the
heebie-jeebie factor through the roof.
"His
name's Pyke, with a 'y'," the now familiar voice explains at my side. "Though I'm afraid he might consider changing
it to 'Spike', now that you've given him the idea." I look up to see a grin flashing across GQ's
face, a single crooked tooth straying out of the otherwise perfect lineup. Between that and the two-inch-long scar that
marks his forehead-it's lower point creating a little rift in his right
eyebrow-he's not quite the flawless cover model that he seemed from a
distance. Somehow it actually raises his
attractiveness quotient in my eyes. I
suppose I shouldn't fault him for having an insanely flat stomach…though I
still wish he'd hike up his trunks (if for no other reason than to save me from
fighting the appalling impulse to check out his abs). "He's not as gruff as he seems on first
meeting," he adds with a glance back over his shoulder.
I
jiggle my head back into the conversation…If you can call it a
conversation. So far, it's been him
talking while I trudge along over the rocks, pretending not to be studying his
face (among other parts). "I'm sure he's
not so bad," I shrug with a wrinkle forming in my forehead. "He can't possibly be any bigger jerk than I
was to you while ago." I meet his eyes
with a humiliated wrinkle of my nose.
"I'm sorry for the verbal lashing-"
"Tristan,"
he completes my sentence with another harmless little chuckle. "'I'm sorry for the verbal lashing, Tristan.'" He offers up a hand to shake mine, trying to
contain the broadening grin. I
hesitantly reach out to meet his handshake, and he takes the opportunity to
guide me on to the next boulder.
I
nod in gratitude for the assistance-I hate to admit it, but my scraped leg and
cut-up feet are starting to throb-and bite back the urge to wince, putting on a
cordial smile. "I'm Layla…also with a
'y'."
"Well,
at least you and Pyke have that much in common." He tips his head to the side with a shrug of
one eyebrow, still trying not to smile too blatantly. "Are your parents Clapton fans?"
A
sarcastic laugh escapes me, before I have a chance to squelch it. "I'm sorry," I bite my lips closed, feeling
genuinely guilty for the nervous squirm I seem to have brought to his
face. "I shouldn't laugh…It was a
reasonable question."
"Yeah,
I'm sure it's one you've heard a thousand times, too," he grimaces in apology.
"Definitely…"
I shuffle along with a nod. "Just not
one I usually hear from the under-forty sect."
His forehead wrinkles with a sheepish squint, and I unconsciously reach
up to reassuringly pat his shoulder, forgetting for a second that he's not
wearing a shirt. This time I'm the one
awkwardly squirming, as I timidly pull back my hand from his bare skin. "And yes…" I recover with a clear of my
throat, "My mom's kind of an Eric Clapton fan.
But mostly she just liked the sound of the name."
That
one crooked tooth makes another appearance, as a warm smile returns to his
face. "Well, it's nice to meet you, Layla. I'm sorry it had to be under such…strained circumstances."
I
hadn't realized we were back to my beach bag, until he slows to a standstill
beside me. "It's nice to meet you too,
Tristan." I glance out the corner of my
eye, biting anxiously at my lower lip.
"I'm sorry I called you a jackass…several times."
"No
harm done," he shrugs it off with a crooked smile. "I won't say I don't deserve the title now
and then."
"Thank
you, all the same." I nod sincerely,
tucking a strand of windblown hair behind my ear. "Thank you for stopping me from falling…and
for not sending me back to the asylum."
I'm certainly feeling a bit 'unhinged', having hallucinated a drowning
and behaved like a lunatic; and he's clearly trying to be remarkably decent
about it.
"Mum's
the word." He zips his lips with a wink,
his voice turning a little more serious.
"Are you sure you don't need help getting that leg cleaned up?...I've
got a first aid kit in the car."
"I'm
positive," I wave it off with a little-too-overzealous shake of my head. "I'll be fine…You'd better get back to Pyke,
though. He's liable to disappear, and
then we'd have to start this whole crazy rodeo over again."
What, I've lived in
Texas for half a day, and already I'm making rodeo references?
Suddenly
I can't wait for Tristan to turn around and leave, hopefully before he catches
me blushing.
He
seems to get the vibe that it's time to go, but not before I'm sure he sees the
flush of red to my cheeks. "Take care
then, Layla." He backs away with a
polite little wave. "Maybe we'll see you
around later."
"Maybe,"
I nod with a forced smile, squatting down to pack up my belongings as his back
finally rounds to face me. Part of me
hopes he's right…but mostly, I can't wait to put this whole bizarre encounter
out of my crazy head for good.
Mostly.
Aqua
Character Bios
by M.A. George
Aqua has a pretty eclectic cast of
characters; and who better to ask for a bio on each of them than our
narrator? Since Layla is a novelist
herself, I threw the assignment of composing these character bios into her lap. (Nice of me, right?) She especially appreciated being tasked with
writing her own bio. (By "appreciated",
I mean rolled her eyes and grumbled a few choice words under her breath.) Enjoy her take on things!
Layla: I'm seventeen.
Self-professed book nerd. I read
them. I write them. I stroke their covers and mutter "My
Precious". I've always been a little
quirky; but I never considered the possibility that I could deviate quite as
far from the norm as I have lately.
Anyway, enough about me. On to
the rest of the crew…
Pyke: Talk about deviating from the norm. Piercings, tattoos, scraggly beard, apparent
aversion to shampoo, and seriously twisted sense of humor. It's thanks to this guy that I've
contemplated booking a room at the local asylum. He delights in sending me into a mental tailspin. Lucky me.
Zría: I have one word for you: Turquoise.
Turquoise hair, turquoise tattoos, turquoise bikini, turquoise lips
(Yeah, I know…It's as weird as it sounds).
She knows her own mind, and apparently her mind really likes turquoise. I
wish I could tell you more about her; but she only shows me what she wants me
to see…and that's boatloads of turquoise.
Tristan: Ah, Tristan. Guardian of my sanity and my safety (from the
people who inexplicably seem to want me dead).
Don't get me wrong, Tristan's done his fair share of throwing me for a
loop with the supernatural craziness.
But he does it with such an innocent smile, and a sheepish rake of his
fingers through those curls, that I have to forgive him. Wouldn't you?
That's not everyone…There's Mom, Aunt Cora, my incommunicado
dad. But explaining their stories opens
up a can of worms like you wouldn't believe.
I'm still trying to wrap my head around all of it, so we're just going
to have to call it a day.
Aqua Soundtrack
by M.A. George
Layla is a very music-savvy character, so it makes sense that the soundtrack to Aqua would come from her playlist. She has pretty varied taste (meaning she'll listen to anything, provided it's awesome). Here are some of the songs she references in Aqua (along with a couple thrown in by me, because I just can't resist):
"Black", Pearl Jam - Okay, so Layla doesn't actually mention the specific song-just the glory that is Pearl Jam-but I have it on good authority that "Black" is the track Layla cranked up as she revved her Volkswagen Rabbit for the long drive to Texas. She may have hit the repeat button a time or two. Or four.
"Pour Some Sugar on Me", Def Leppard - This is one of the songs Layla sings inside her head on one of her ritual ocean swims. It's got a good beat for freestyling through the waves, particularly when you're trying to shake some bizarre recent events from your brain.
"Kashmir", Led Zeppelin - It's Led Zeppelin, people. Layla says this one needs no explanation
"Pumped Up Kicks", Foster The People - When the ocean proves too fraught with danger and peculiarity, Layla reluctantly abandons swimming. She finds a reasonable substitute in jogging (with the ability to carry along an MP3 player being a huge bonus). This track is perfect for a pleasant jog. Too bad she has to take off in a fleeing sprint somewhere mid-song…
"Skin", Zola Jesus - You won't find this one referenced in the book, but I got approval from Layla to include it. This song was a frequent flyer on my own playlist while writing Aqua, because it's just a cool song. Every time I hear it, I see slow motion clips of Layla, Tristan, Pyke, and Zría navigating the ocean depths. Plus, watery explosions are always cooler in slow motion.
About The Author
M. A. George is part proud
mother of two adorable children, part super top secret agent…Oops, probably
just lost that job.
Writing is what keeps her up
into the wee hours of the night.
Fortunately, she has a lot of energy (Read: caffeine is her
friend). She has a bit of an obsession
with music (It does a fantastic job of tuning out rambunctious children while
she attempts to focus).
She sincerely hopes people out
there enjoy reading her work as much as she enjoys writing it. And if anyone hears of work for a super top
secret agent, she's now available (Discretion guaranteed…).
Find M.A. At
0 comments:
Post a Comment