GOAT
CHILDREN
A
young adult novel with a touch of fantasy, love, and imagination versus
reality.
When Keziah’s
grandmother, Oma, is diagnosed with dementia, Keziah faces two choices: leave
her family and move to New Winchester to care for Oma, or stay in New York City
and allow her grandmother to live in a nursing home miles away.
The
dementia causes Oma to be rude and paranoid, nothing like the woman Keziah
remembers. Each day becomes a greater weight and love a harsher burden. Keziah
must keep Oma from wandering off or falling, and try to convince her grandmother
to see a doctor as her eyesight and hearing fail, but Oma refuses to believe
anything is wrong. Resentful of her hardships in New Winchester, Keziah finds
herself drawn to Oma’s ramblings about the Goat Children, a mythical warrior
class. These fighters ride winged horses, locating people in need, while
attempting to destroy evil in the world. Oma sees the Goat Children everywhere,
and as Keziah reads the stories Oma wrote about them, she begins to question if
they really exist.
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GOAT CHILDREN
is now available on Amazon from CHBB.
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Excerpt:
Check out
Chapter 1:
Bodies crushed against
each other, a blur of hair and clothes, in the mad dash to exit the subway. The
air smelled of the greasy restaurants above and felt stuffy, despite the bitter
cold that rattled through the damp subway tunnel. My mouth watered as I sniffed
roasted chestnuts.
You haven’t eaten
dinner yet, my rumbling stomach scolded.
I slipped past a man
speaking rapid Spanish to board the train, grabbed a pole, slid on to a seat,
and pulled my green bag higher towards my chest. The two paperbacks inside
jammed into my ribs. With a groan, I shifted into a new position, wondering what
glorious worlds awaited within the glossy covers.
“Whoa ho, ho, ho.”
More people ranting on
the subway. It could never be a quiet ride. I opened my bag to peer at the
fantasy novels. I’d chosen thick books because they lasted longer and made the
reading more rewarding.
“Ho, little one.”
A face shoved into mine
from the aisle, and I jerked back, squeaking. Oily black hair hung over a
scarred forehead. The man swayed, braying a laugh. I glanced at the woman with
bright pink hair sitting on the next seat. She read a newspaper without looking
up.
“So much to you.” The
man licked his lips and slurred the words.
His pungent odor clawed
its way through my nose; no escaping the invisible fumes. They washed over me
with groping draws until my eyes watered. I cringed, my craving for chestnuts
gone. Anyone on a diet would be thankful to have him around.
He stood, clinging to a
pole with one gloved hand. Threads poked from the torn seams in the gripping
brown leather. Two duffel bags, stained with mud, rested near his feet, bulging
with contents.
I lowered my gaze,
clutching the bag tighter. Please go away. I shouldn’t have taken the subway,
but I’d done it to save time. Even though I was seventeen, Mama said it wasn’t
safe to ride alone, and now, I agreed.
I’m not gonna be home
by my seven o’clock curfew. Mama’s gonna freak. I can’t believe I forgot my
phone.
“You don’t belong on
this world.” He smacked his lips. Behind his head, a large sign told the public
not to smoke, or they’d get lung cancer and die. It was easier to stare at the
anti-smoking sign than him.
“Yes, thank you,” I
mumbled as he leered at me. Even if he lacked a home and suffered from insanity,
he didn’t deserve rudeness.
“You like
fantasy?”
I stared at my lap, but
when he repeated the question louder, I nodded.
“What would ya do if
fantasy became your life? What would ya do if it wasn’t fantasy anymore?”
“Fantasy isn’t real.” I
shifted my gaze to my black socks. They came up to my thighs and the right sock
had a tiny hole near the knee. I’d have to sew it when I got home. If I studied
it, maybe he’d grow bored and mosey on elsewhere.
“Are you happy here?
Don’t you want more, little one? I can take you to another world.” His deep
breaths made snot rattle in his nose.
I gagged, hiding my
mouth behind my hand. The woman with the newspaper glanced over. I pleaded
silently for her to make the man go away, but she moved to an empty seat down
the car, wrinkling her nose. I still had five more stops before I could get
away.
Do I dare follow
her?
“Don’t you believe in
destiny?”
What if he sits next to
me? I slid my bag onto the empty seat, clutching the handle. As the subway
curved around the corner, it screeched, the sound echoing through the metallic
enclosure as if screaming, “Doom!”
“I’ve been to other
lands. I’ve seen my future, and I spit at it.” He turned his head to hack on the
floor. The saliva bubbled with a yellowish hue.
The subway squealed to
a halt, and some of the passengers stood to exit. I removed the bag in case
someone new sat down, someone safe, but no one came near or looked at us as they
found seats. The doors slid shut, and the train moved again. Four more stops to
go.
“Don’t shun fantasy.
I’ve made mistakes and don’t want you to make ‘em too. Take it and see what you
can do. Take it!” He pumped his fist, revealing grease stains on his coat
sleeves.
I scanned the other
passengers’ faces. They ignored us, although the ranting man filled the car with
his voice. Only the smiling faces on wall advertisements watched. Ever-smiling,
ever-trapped in their realm of sales. I fiddled with the zipper on the front of
my gray hoodie, heart racing.
The subway halted at
the next station. Again, people exited and entered, and no one sat beside me.
Three more stops to go. I drummed my fingers against my thigh.
“I know all about the
ones they call the Goats.” He drew a ragged breath. “I’m not supposed to, but I
know. My wife was one. She told me all about them. Oh, yes, she did. She wasn’t
supposed to, but she did. They don’t let them take over the world. They
won’t!”
Why do crazies always
go for alien invasions? I twirled my brown curls. I’d get off at the next stop
and walk the rest of the way, even if I arrived home later.
What if he follows me?
“The Goats!” He flapped
his arm.
Alien goat invasion.
How awesome. I jumped and clutched my bag like a shield. The subway screeched as
it approached the next station. I wanted to run, but he waved both arms,
repeating the scream.
The doors swished open,
but if I stood to escape, he could attack. Two more stops to go. What if I can’t
escape at my stop, either?
As soon as the subway
started, he lowered his arm and drew a few breaths. He reeked of alcohol, and
overpowering the sweat stench, the stench made my head swirl.
“Beware of the Goats.”
His chest heaved. “Help the Goats. Save the Goats!”
He really is deranged.
There weren’t any goats in New York City that I’d ever seen.
“Yes, I will.” Go away.
“I’ll … I’ll watch out for the goats.”
“The Goats,” he
corrected, as if I’d mispronounced the word. He picked up his duffel bags and
waddled to the back of the car, where he dropped onto a seat. He took a small
paperback book from the pocket of his trench coat and flipped it open.
When the doors swished
open at the next stop, I exited in the crush of bodies. People coughed and
spoke, heels clicked and wheels on backpacks rolled, and the sounds echoed off
the stone walls.
I slid through the
turnstile and bolted up the cement steps two at a time, the edges cracked and
crumbled and graffiti decorated the walls with images of fire and obscene
language. The brightness of the paint, and the harsh edges that curved and sang
were beautiful. The scrawls seemed to want to leap off the stone, suddenly
alive.
At the top, I grasped
the railing. Cold, dented metal bit through the fishnet of my fingerless gloves
while I gazed over my shoulder. The people emerging didn’t spare me a glance. I
was lost in the crowd, a stationary fixture.
The man wasn’t
following. I ducked my head to push into the crowd. People bumped into me,
jostling with elbows and bags. I almost walked into a tourist, who snapped a
picture of the taxicabs.
“Hey,” called a stout
vender from the corner. “You okay?”
I tucked back a brown
curl. “I’m fine, but thanks.” Wind whipping between the skyscrapers stole the
power of my words.
“Wanna dog?” He held
one out, nestled in a white roll.
“No, thanks. I don’t
eat meat.”
“Good,” I thought I
heard him whisper. “Your kind shouldn’t.”
He couldn’t have
spoken. It must’ve been someone else. It wouldn’t make sense for a man who made
his living off people scarfing down meat-in-a-tube to agree with my vegetarian
lifestyle.
I ogled the sea of
metal vehicles washed in the afternoon sunlight like sharks swarming for a fresh
kill. I shook off the thought and ran, an empty Styrofoam cup crunching beneath
my foot. I didn’t have a watch, but the sun hung low in the sky.
A thought raced through
my mind as the sun made windows wink and flash.
Beware
of Goats.
#
“Long line at the
bookstore.” I dropped my bag on the marble table beside the door to my family’s
condo. Instrumental Celtic music wafted from the living room as I left the small
foyer, and I almost tripped over my sprawled little sister.
“Phebe, you shouldn’t
lie on the floor.”
“Why are you home so
late?” Phebe dragged an orange crayon over the page of her coloring book. Her
ponytail bobbed as she tipped her head, studying the picture. “You should’ve
taken me with you. Mommy said so.”
“I’m sure she did.” I
rolled my eyes.
When I’d left earlier,
Phebe had still been doing her mathematics homework. We were home schooled, so
even in the summer, we had work to do. It sucked because other home schooled
students I knew had summers off. That was our penalty for having a mother with a
Master’s degree in elementary education.
“Where’re Mama and
Dad?”
Phebe sat up on her
knees with her eyebrows knit together. “Mommy’s crying.”
My heart sunk and
dropped clear out of my stomach. Mama never got that upset when I came home
late. Did she find out about the party last weekend at Tiffany’s? I’d lied and
said it was only going to be Tiff, her parents and siblings, and me. I hadn’t
mentioned her parents were in Vancouver on vacation or that Tiff had invited all
of her friends, not just me. Regret stabbed my gut.
“Mama, I’m home! Mama?”
The family photographs
glared at me from the wall, none so reprimanding as the face of my Reverend
Uncle. I kicked off my flats and hurried into my parents’ bedroom. With the lamp
off, only a little light slipped through the closed venetian blinds covering the
single window.
Short brown hair fanned
over the plaid pillowcase, and Mama lay sideways on the king-sized bed, a
crumpled tissue pressed against her nose. Dad sat beside her, stroking her
shoulders. He still wore his suit from work—an even worse sign. The first thing
Dad did when he walked through the door was peel off his jacket and toss the tie
onto the table.
“Mama?” My voice
cracked as my throat constricted.
“Your uncle called.”
Dad tugged on his green silk tie that should’ve been lost in the pile of mail,
not still fastened around his neck.
“Uncle Tom?”
The Reverend in
Massachusetts, Dad’s younger brother, only called once a month, on the first
Friday. Even though we called him Uncle Tom around the house, we all referred to
him as Pastor Thomas to his face.
“No, Uncle
Jan.”
Mama’s brother, the one
who called less than Uncle Tom did.
“What…what did he want?
Has someone died?” Oh no, is it my grandmother? Uncle Jan lived upstate, in the
same town as her.
“Keziah, it’s your
grandmother,” Dad continued.
Oh no, oh no, oh no.
When I’d been younger, we’d lived down the street from Mama’s mother. She had
taken care of me while my parents worked, and we’d often picked violets in the
yard. Sometimes, I imagined I could smell their perfume years later and hundreds
of miles away.
I’d always called her
Oma, which meant grandmother in Dutch. I could still remember the way I’d cried
and screamed, begging to stay with Oma when we’d moved to New York City. The
hours separating us seemed like an eternity.
“She has dementia.” Dad
removed his tie and knotted it around his fingers.
I blinked at him.
“Dementia?” Demented, like the man on the subway?
“She hasn’t been
officially diagnosed, but the symptoms are there. Uncle Jan doesn’t feel she can
live on her own anymore.” Dad dropped his tie onto the alarm clock.
“So…she’s moving in
with Uncle Jan?” I pictured waking up from a sleepover at Oma’s house with fresh
squeezed orange juice waiting in the kitchen beside a bowl of cream of wheat
cereal, steamy and sweet.
“Good morning,
sunshine,” Oma would sing. She’d pull out the chair, the seat hideous and green,
leftover from the 1970s. It had been an honor to sit at the kitchen table with
her.
Dad rubbed his chin.
“Your aunt won’t let her do that.”
I grinned. “She’s
moving in with us? That’s amazing!” I only saw Oma on school holidays, and that
summer, we’d had to pass because Mama had taught a summer school class.
“You know that wouldn’t
work.” Dad gazed at the dresser across the room, a fog coming over his eyes.
I pulled at a loose
thread on my black skirt. If Oma moved in, then Dad would have to move out or
risk family war. The yelling would never stop. She hated Dad with a roaring
passion I’d never understood. That anger had contributed to the reason why we’d
moved, and when we visited Oma, Dad never went.
“Your uncle wants to
put her in a home.” Dad leaned over to rub a spot on the wall’s blue paint as if
that space was the problem, and he could make it disappear.
I licked my dry lips.
“You mean like a nursing home?”
“No!” Mama rose on her
elbows. “I’m not putting my mother in a nursing home. Do you know how they treat
their patients? It’s horrible. All those people. Oma would hate it. She’s so
antisocial these days. Really hate it.”
“Hush. Come on,
sweetheart. It’s all right. We won’t put her in a home.” Dad combed his fingers
through her hair.
“Why would Uncle Jan
want to do that?” I didn’t know anything about nursing homes, but Mama was
right. Oma had become one of the most antisocial people I’d ever met.
“It’s your aunt.” Dad
patted Mama’s back. “She wants to put your grandmother away. It’s getting too
hard to take care of her, and she won’t let her move in with them. You know how
your aunt can be.”
My aunt could be
downright nasty—a sickish combination of stubborn and controlling. Dad was too
nice to say that aloud, though.
“What are we going to
do?” My question made Mama cry harder, and I flinched.
“We’ll think of
something,” Dad whispered.
#
Jordan
Elizabeth, formally Jordan Elizabeth Mierek, is known for her odd sense of humor
and her outrageous outfits. Surrounded by bookshelves, she can often be found
pounding away at her keyboard – she’s known for breaking keyboards, too.
Jordan’s young adult novels include ESCAPE FROM WITCHWOOD HOLLOW, COGLING,
TREASURE DARKLY, and BORN OF TREASURE. GOAT CHILDREN is her first novel with
CHBB. Her short stories are featured in over twenty anthologies. Check out her
website for bonus scenes and
contests.
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Giveaway:
Keziah lives in New
Winchester, a town frequented by squirrels. Win a squirrel charm necklace in
honor of her furry companions!
All winners
will be notified after verification of entry at the end of this
promotion. Prizes have been supplied by and the responsibility of delivery are
solely that of the author and/or their representatives. Blogs are not liable for
non-delivery on the part of the author. No purchase necessary.
I hope you check out Jordan's book and thank you to her for letting us feature Goat Children on our blog. Thank you, readers, for stopping by, and happy reading!
