by John L. Monk
Seeing my old bedroom again was definitely weird. The room was completely different—no Rush posters on the walls, no homework desk or hamster cage. I did find some old things up on a shelf in the closet, including an old Dungeons & Dragons box we kids used to smuggle Playboys and Penthouses around in.
For the remainder of our rides, Rose and I stayed with my mother. Both of them took turns treating my arm, which was purple and swollen from the gunshot. Luckily, the bullet had passed right through. A flesh wound, as they say. That first day, Rose bought a ton of antibiotics designed for use in fish tanks, which she made me take three times a day. She said they were just as safe for fish as humans. The next day, when I didn’t die from poisoning, I knew she was right.
As the days wore on, Rose and Mom grew increasingly closer, often staying up chatting deep into the night. It became obvious to me that, though Mom was happy to have me back, we didn’t have a lot of normal things to talk about. She seemed merely content that I was there. It also became clear Rose had become a sort of surrogate daughter—despite Rose being older than her by at least ten years.
One very cool development: every night, after staying up talking, Rose would slip upstairs, pass by Jane’s old room, and sneak into mine. We did our best to keep quiet, and Mom pretended not to notice.
Rose and I felt our first kicks at the same time. Uncanny, how our cycles were now synced.
When we were kicked again the next day, she said, “Are we boyfriend and girlfriend now?”
She’d said it playfully, but I sensed real concern just below the surface.
“Do you want to be boyfriend and girlfriend?”
Rose shrugged and ran a finger down my chest. “What about that girl you killed yourself over?”
That was a good question.
“Remember those snake things I told you about?”
“Hard to believe,” she said. “Hopping without going to the spaceship.”
I let the spaceship thing slide.
“One of the memories that got snatched away was of Sandra. I remember her being pretty, but can’t picture her face. Somehow, without that image to hold on to, I don’t think about her anymore. Who knew I was so shallow?”
“Maybe you were too young and mixed up love with desire,” Rose said.
“Maybe.”
Rose took my hand and held it to her face. “Will you want to see me again if my face is old and wrinkly? Or if I’m just plain ugly? Or too fat or too thin?”
I cupped her cheek and kissed her.
“Yes.”
Dear Reader
Like most independent authors, I rely on word of mouth for nearly all of my marketing. So, if you liked Hopper House, please consider leaving a review. The more reviews it gets, the more likely people are to find it, and that would really help me out.
I've also published a novel about a modern day cat burglar. Nothing supernatural, just good honest crime: Thief's Odyssey.
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Awesome Indie Fiction
In early 2014 I decided to read more books from indie authors, with the hope of discovering those hidden gems in the hundreds of thousands of books available for purchase. I’d set myself an impossible task, and I knew I could never do more than scratch the surface. After reading a great many reviews and fielding tips from people I trusted, I discovered eight incredible authors who knocked my socks off with their amazing writing:
Lindy Moone – Hyperlink from Hell
C.L. Ervin – Dell Zero
Mark Capell – Cafe Insomniac
Dan C. Rinnert – Dan’s Lame Novel
P.T. Hylton – Regulation 19
Harvey Click – The Bad Box
E.J. Robinson – Robinson Crusoe 2244
E.E. Giorgi – Chimeras: A Medical Mystery
Acknowledgments
This is the page where I thank all the wonderful people who helped make Hopper House happen. In no particular order: Mike Miller, Lindy Moone, Carol Kean, E.E. Giorgi, Harvey Click, P.T. Hylton, my buddy Rob, and anyone reading this book right now. Thank you.
JLM
