For the fans of V for Vendetta and The Last Airbender comes a tale like no other...
If the government cannot be trusted...
While a bioengineering company tries to enslave the country...
When people with unusual powers start emerging...
Can Adele, a 21-year-old young shy French government intern, find the way to stop a catastrophe?..
Or will she lead it?..
Find out in Shake, Book 1 of the Great Keeper series!
(Shake is a novelette that can be read as a standalone and is appropriate for young and new adults).
Here is what the readers tell about the series...
"It is one more example of why I am now a Dystopian fan: it's simply great writing. I loved it".
"Give yourself a treat and read this".
"I read this book in about an hour and a half, I enjoyed it that much. (...) I hope you enjoy as much as I did. I am going to go find book two now."
Want to know more?...
Here’s sneak peek into the book…
Chapter 1
Philippe turned a street corner, following the old fashioned lampposts to the side of town where he would find a place to rest. The soles of his shoes were worn down, so that he could feel the curve of the cobblestones on his feet. His body ached, having spent most of the day walking and heaving around a bag full of paints and brushes, and a canvas nearly as tall as he was.
He reached a church that was fairly modest in size. He knew that there were much grander, more elegant churches in the area, and so he chose to squat in one that would receive less attention from tourists and policemen. He slipped in through an unlocked door on the side of the building.
Despite being younger and smaller than some of the cathedrals nearby, this church was still beautiful inside. The walls were adorned with paintings. A life-size sculpture of Mary stood to the right of the pulpit. Philippe dropped his things and reached inside the podium for candles and a lighter. He lit a few tea lights and sat them on the floor near his belongings, and proceeded to light a few of the bigger candles that lined the walls near the pews.
He knelt before his bag and laid its contents out in a neat row. There were seven tubes of paint, a palette, and three brushes. He got to work on the fresh canvas. There was always a degree of pressure with Philippe’s work, because he only ever made enough money off his paintings, to eat a meal or two and buy more canvas. He barely broke even, so he knew that there was no room for error, no chance to paint poorly.
At the same time, Philippe felt liberated in his painting. The words implied in his art were just about the only ones anyone ever heard from him. He had friends and a family when he was younger, but his art isolated him, and once he became homeless, any tie to society was pretty much severed. No one wanted to listen to what Philippe had to say, or make sure that he had something to eat or drink. Most of the time, he received little other than dirty looks and insults spat at him as he walked past. Street rat he remembered hearing a particularly beautiful woman say earlier that day.
He remembered admiring the woman when he walked past. She was tall and thin and had short, choppy black hair. He met her eyes and could have sworn that they made a connection, as if she had seen more than his dirty clothes and paint stained hands. He could almost feel her soul lingering with his. But just as he walked past, he had heard her insult, followed by her and her friend’s giggles.
He decided to paint the woman. Philippe had curated his own brand of painting. It wasn’t quite abstract, but it certainly wasn’t literal either. He would paint an object and surround it by an idea. For example, he painted the beautiful woman, but not in detail. Her features were geometric, and her body was surrounded by beautiful, but violent swirls of color. He was pleased with the end result. He blew out the candles and went to sleep on the floor.
The following morning, Philippe woke up early as usual, so that he could get out of the church before anyone might notice. He gathered his things and carried his painting out to the street. He visited two art galleries, but was rejected immediately. Frustrated, he continued into the city center. He wondered why he was cursed to live in a world that didn’t appreciate how much of his soul was given to his work. He thought that this was unfair. There were bankers and stockbrokers and government workers who went to work each day and didn’t give a single ounce of their souls away. Sure, those people may work occasional 14-hour days, but an artist was never off the clock. An artist was tasked to experience every second of life more intensely than the rest of the world, and countless hours trying to convince others that this was worth something.
By 15:00, Philippe’s stomach was growling and the skies were turning gray. He hadn’t eaten anything all day, but that wasn’t unusual for him. Five shops had rejected him so far. He had two euro left in his pocket from the previous day’s sales. He had been saving it, hoping that he could just sell this painting and come up with enough to get a whole meal.
Just then, it began pouring rain. Philippe felt fear coarse through his veins. He gripped his painting and bolted into the nearest storefront, the painting having only caught a short burst of the rain. He examined it, and it had survived. He turned around to see what store he was in. It was an upscale clothing store. The employees were looking at him like he was mad.
“Sir,” a tall, thin woman scoffed, “If you’re not going to buy anything – and we all know you aren’t”, - she paused to allow the other employees to laugh, - “then you need to leave.”
Philippe turned to face the woman. He gasped. It was the woman from the day before. They met eyes and her smile quickly vanished. She glanced down at the painting, attempting to avoid making eye contact with anyone. She jumped, clearly recognizing herself in the painting. She met his eyes, looking hurt.
“Well?” she swallowed the lump in her throat.
“I just need a bag,” Philippe mumbled, pointing to a long plastic garment bag a woman was carrying out of the store. It was wide and must have held a wedding dress or some sort of formal gown.
“Right,” the tall woman whispered, making her way to the counter to grab a bag for him.
“Aren’t you forgetting something,” her coworker poked her arm, grinning.
“Right, sorry. Sir, we charge one euro for the bags.”
Philippe exhaled sharply and retrieved one of the two coins from his pocket and placed it gently into the woman’s hand. She returned a moment later with the bag. She opened it, helping him to get the painting inside. Her coworker scoffed and walked to the back. Philippe tied the ends of the bag to seal the painting and headed for the door.
“Sir, wait,” the woman stopped him. He turned to face her, but she was silent, a look of regret on her face.
“Merci, madam.”
Chapter 2
Adele marched into Palais de l’Éysée wearing a smart red pantsuit. She wanted to stick out from the other interns ever since her first day, but had never really come out of her shell. She was shy, but incredibly intelligent and hard working. She hoped that this would be enough to get her recognized.
She logged in on the computer at the front of the intern room. The computer only had access to the time clock. The palace had tight security, and despite interns having gone through intense background checks, they were trusted with precious little technology.
“Good morning Adele. I need a favor,” Rebecca, one of Adele’s bosses, instructed, pulling Adele into the hallway. “You know where the kitchen is, right?”
“Yes,” Adele replied, having memorized the entire layout of the palace as soon as she found out she landed the internship.
“Great. They’re short a hand today, and yes, that means someone is getting fired, but I need you to go down there and run coffees to the meeting the president is in. He’s in Salon Murat. Got it?”
“Yes ma’am,” Adele replied quickly, doing her best not to look too excited. She hurried off to the kitchen, adjusting her straight blonde hair on the way. She didn’t know very
many other women who got to meet the president at age 21.
When she reached the kitchen, she could hear chaos, as a few cooks scrambled to do the work of a whole crew. On the counter, she found a large silver platter containing two upside down mugs, a carafe of coffee, another carafe of cream, sugar cubes, and a plate of scones. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted a dome the same size as the platter. She instinctively grabbed it and placed it on top, making her way to Salon Murat.
She moved as quickly as possible, but focused nearly all of her attention on not dropping the tray. She reached the end of a hallway and turned right, expecting the room to be just a few feet past the turn. She walked slower and composed herself. As she approached the double doors, she could hear the president’s voice. Her stomach flipped. She took a deep breath. Just as she went to open the door, she noticed what was being said.
The president was instructing the other man to transfer funds into his own personal account. It was an offshore account and no one would notice. The other man said that it would be risky. The president said that he would make it worth his while, and that if he didn’t do it, he would pay. Adele felt sweat pool beneath her armpits. She could not be caught eavesdropping on the president and didn’t want to hear anything worse. She balanced the tray against her hip and used her free hand to knock on the door.
“Coffee,” she chimed, doing her best to sound ordinary.
This is the end of preview of Shake, Book 1 of The Great Keeper series.
You can read more today, just click this link to find it on Amzon! http://a.co/4gTfnXA
I am looking forward to meeting you in my books!
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