This week’s flash fiction is a response to a reader prompt “Farting Stress Dreams.”

I thought the prompt was pretty silly, but still fairly relatable for most of us. We all have stress and have our own reactions to it. I mulled the idea for a while and inspiration struck in the mental image of a woman who found herself randomly inflating with gas on very stressful day. Bingo.

Thus was born the inspiration for this week’s story:

Inflatable

Jill N Davies

These things always seemed to happen to Elvira when she had some sort of important business. Here she was facing the presentation of a lifetime and she was running late—15 minutes late to be exact.

Elvira checked her reflection in the rearview mirror. At least her makeup was on point. Hopefully it would all be worth it in the end—the two hours pouring over YouTube tutorials,  the $300 designer business suit in slate grey with the pale pink silk blouse… not to mention a career’s worth of hard work and careful research crammed into the last six months. She’d present it all to the investors, they’d be blown away and she’d be set for life.

So long as she got there in time, that was.

The light turned green and Elvira eased her foot onto the accelerator all the while breathing out a steady, calming breath. Everything was going to be alright. This is why she build such generous buffers into her schedule, after all. She wasn’t the sort of woman that would leave things up to chance.

Traffic moved smoothly down the 405 as she headed east, toward downtown. The slow but steady progress of the hundreds of vehicles had an almost calming affect on her. Almost.

It was amidst that peace that she noticed the strange sensation in her wrist. The feeling started out so subtly that she might have mistaken it for her own pulse beating against the silver charms of her bracelet. But, as the seconds ticked by the little boom-boom of pressure became alarmingly noticeable.

She glanced down and realized that her arm was expanding. The little hairs rose up, as if coaxed by static electricity as she watched with horror. Her skin stretched and ballooned until the appendage was comically puffy and then, completely against her will and musculature control, her arm began to float.

Elvira didn’t scream. She was far to sensible to do that. After all, what good would that do in this situation? Instead, she pulled over at the next exit and slipped into the first available curbside parking spot.

Parking brake set, she used her regular arm to pull her floating arm down from where it bumped against the felted ceiling. Her skin felt like latex. She pushed on it, filled with wonder. It was as if her arm were filled with some sort of gas…

She didn’t know what she should do. Should she rush to the hospital? Call emergency? Call her boss? Elvira reached for her phone and in the process of doing so let go of her balloon arm. It flew up toward the ceiling, lighter than air. When it hit the top the back of her hand caught against the sharp plastic edge—the one she’d been meaning to fix for a couple of months now…

There was a little pop, followed by a persistent hissing and the sensation of extreme relief. Her arm began to sink back down. Muscular control returned. She flexed her fingers, overcome with wonder.

Just as suddenly as the whole thing started, it was over. Her arm was normal. She was normal. Not wanting to waste another minute she zipped back onto the 405 and continued her journey east. 17 minutes late.

The parking garage was much fuller than Elvira was used to, seeing as she was usually one of the first to the office under normal circumstances. She brushed the thought aside, grabbed her briefcase with its treasure trove of research and, taking a moment to adjust her skirt, headed toward the elevator. The day was still hers.

The sensation started at the tip of her toes this time, creeping up her calf and expanding in her thigh. She recognized it immediately.

Without drawing attention to herself, she pressed the number 12 button and worked her way toward the back of the climbing lift. Her leg began to rise with the elevator. She knew she had to act quickly.

She reached into her purse and fished out the zipper pouch she always kept handy. Elvira was a woman of preparation, and somehow, she’d even managed to prepare for this. Inside the pouch, along with a couple spools of thread, various buttons, a pair of scissors and a measuring tape was a tin full of needles.

Pulling one out she thrust it down through her skirt and into her quadricep. Just as her knee lifted above the rail in a nearly unmistakable show of floatation the pop came, followed by the hiss of gas.

The ding of the elevator drowned out the worst of it, which Elvira was incredibly grateful for. The box emptied and she hurried, once again in control of her faculties, down the hall and to the left—to the executive office.

She was almost there when her middle expanded. It came on more rapidly than the appendages, stretching her suit at its seems and lifting her from the ground. She gasped as she lost control and accelerated toward the ceiling.

Someone might see her!

Just as soon as the thought crossed her mind the office door opened. She stifled a scream, grasping for the needle to end the terrible nightmare…

Elvira opened her eyes wide, sitting up from her sweat drenched sheets. She blinked twice in the darkness, trying to orient herself. Grabbing her phone, she braced for the flood of blue light. The screen stared back at her—5:23 am. Her alarm should have sounded 15 minutes ago. She would be late for her big presentation. These things always seemed to happen to Elvira when she had some sort of important business.

The End

If you’ve got an idea for a flash fiction story send it to me at author@jillndavies.com.

Tune in next week for more flash fiction.

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This week’s flash fiction is dedicated to everyone who has fought the good fight against invading critters in their homes. May you find peace in your wars…

Ant Invasion

By Jill N Davies

Brad had a thing about bugs—he just didn’t like them. Their spindly legs and shiny bodies… And they had too many accessories! Abdomens, antennae, thorax… wings…. He didn’t even know which ones had which parts—that would require him to spend far too long studying their disgusting, weird bodies.

So it was a particularly bad day when he came home to discover the thin, wandering line of ants marching across his kitchen counter.

He hadn’t even loosened his tie yet. His briefcase didn’t make it to the preferred corner. His shoes weren’t tucked into the rack. All those important things were lost to one, terrible detail—the ants.

He traced their path from the pile of jammy crumbs to the dark little hole next to the sink window.

This would not do. He grabbed the container of bleach wipes he kept handy.

“Not today you little monsters,” he said under his breath as he brought death upon them in the form of an astringent cloth.

He traced their path, starting at the window and ending at the crumbs. Folding the wipe he passed by again, leaving a moist trail to mark his victory.

He folded the wipe over once more, sealing the critters into their disinfectant crypt before tossing them into the trash. Then, to be certain the job was done, he swept the counter again with a fresh wipe.

The whole ordeal wasn’t through until he’d patched the hole with caulk and the flat edge of the trowel he kept for these sorts of jobs. Only then could he enjoy the remainder of his evening—mired though it was with the disorganization of coming home to a shock, and the subsequent ruin to his well-kept schedule.

The next day, before leaving for work, Brad made certain his counters were spotless. Not a hint of the oatmeal with brown sugar and raisins he’d enjoyed before gathering his things and heading for the train.

If fact, he was so confident he’d squashed the problem that he managed to merrily hum as he made his way up the stairs that evening. The briefcase made it to the corner. Shoes tidied in their place.

They surprised him. The same thin line from the same hole that shouldn’t have been there, only, this time they crossed the counter and traveled down the cabinets into the third drawer from the sink.

He watched them with morbid fascination.

Quietly, not wanting to disturb them before the big event, he eased the drawer open to discover a crumbled lump of brown sugar.

Each ant took its load, carrying it dutifully to the troop’s access point. He studied them as though he couldn’t believe it was happening.

When the lead ant had made its way halfway across the counter, he came out of the trance and dispatched them as he’d done the previous night, this time running a third bleach wipe across his counters. After dinner he cleaned out every single drawer and cabinet in the kitchen. It was arduous work—exactly the sort that Brad enjoyed.

When all was clean, he brought out the caulk and trowel, this time for a far more meticulous job.

Breakfast on the third day was consumed out of the home—a sweet Danish from a pastry shop on the way to the train. A pleasant treat for all the right reasons. After all, why should he sully his pristine kitchen for anything less?

Returning home contained none of the creeping apprehension that it should have.

On the third day the line traveled from the hole, across the counter and down to the floor. The troop made their way to a sticky spot on the floor that Brad couldn’t explain.

Five bleach wipes later there wasn’t an ant in sight. By the end of the night there likewise wasn’t a trace of food. Every spill, splotch and splatter was addressed.

Day four they were in his cabinets. No Tupperware could stop them.

On day five they found his refrigerator.

On day seven Brad called the landlord and ordered an exterminator, who was very polite and prompt. When that failed, he removed every food-related item from his flat.

On day fourteen he replaced the window that kept manifesting the little black hole.

From there things deteriorated quickly for Brad.

On day thirty-six it was no longer one thin line. The black hole persisted, but they came from the window itself, up through the dishwasher and sink and from the cracks by the door. And Brad fought them with everything he had. He bought every bleach wipe in a five-block radius, then he purchased more online.

He swept the house clean nightly, and when that didn’t work, he quit leaving. He fought them off at their onset.

He didn’t sleep.

He didn’t eat.

He only battled the devils hellbent on invading his home.

But the ants fought back just as hard, and he found it difficult to maintain his focus. Their movement affected him. If he looked too long, he would fall into a trancelike state.

Their power was in their numbers. The collective movement of thousands of tiny parts moving through his home. Searching for… something.

On day sixty-two his sister called, worried because he hadn’t been reporting to work. What he said to her sent a sick chill through her core.

“They have me now Gloria. The little devils have won. You see, it wasn’t my home they were after. This whole time they’ve been waiting for me. To give myself to them.”

Brad was found on the meticulously cleaned kitchen floor, his mouth agape and eyes starting without seeing. He was rushed to hospital, but when no malady could be identified, he was institutionalized.

He remains there today. Gloria sees him as often as she can, but with three school age children, it’s difficult to make time. His loft was fumigated before another tenant took up residence, but to this day, not one ant has been found.

The End

Come back next week for another installment of Flash Friday!

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The Anvil That Knew He Was Falling

By Jill N Davies

Maybe it was the acceleration—the sudden interruption of inertia. He didn’t know. But there was a sudden realization of awareness. He was falling.

There’s no way to tell for certain if anvils are sentient under normal circumstances, but this particular anvil, on this particular day, sitting stagnant on the Farrier’s bench experienced a moment of true enlightenment.

There was a flash of adrenalin. A neck-whipping centripetal acceleration as his whole form twisted—if he’d had a neck, that is. He could feel the grit and splintered surface of the bench as it pulled away below him. He could sense the change in light as he moved away from the blank, dry-rotted wall. In the moment before he pitched downward he caught the surprised look on the Farrier’s face.

It was as though all the world had frozen in time except for the anvil. He had decades to take in the stunned man—his curious green eyes with pupils that expanded and contracted at the intake of information. The coarse, rusty colored beard that nearly covered lips frozen in an “o.” A black leather bib covering a dusty shirt and worn jeans. In his left hand a hammer with a flat face. His leather-clad right hand outstretched toward a metal U, suspended in mid-air and still glowing hot.

What happened? He didn’t know. He couldn’t remember what came before falling. There weren’t any thoughts, no memory. Only this moment. And what a wonderful moment it was.

The world pitched and turned away from him as gravity took over. Whatever had upended him has also tilted him on his vertical axis—his top, or what might be the head of him, was on its way to becoming his bottom.

He lost sight of the man first. His startled mouth fading up into his nose until the bright eyes pitched out of sight. Then the glow of the metal U, which wasn’t actually motionless—just moving at the same rate as him—spun away. (Or rather, he spun from it, but we can forgive him of this error, as he’s only just come into consciousness and understanding).

It was a devastating loss. These two things were his whole world. They were precious. But missing them was short-lived. As he turned a brilliant light filled his vision—filled him. It was warmth. With it came the springtime breeze that rustled in the far off grass. Grass that he could now see out the wide-open double barn-door. Green and tall with seasonal growth, and reined-in by the chipped wood fence that went out as far as he could see.

Sounds came into life all around him. Not just the rustle of grass, but the song of a dozen birds—the clack and ping of the Farrier’s movements and the far off noise of a sputtering tractor engine. Wheels crunching on gravel, the scree of a hawk… and above it all, the whinny and neigh that was somehow both new and familiar.

Horses.

They were right there—inside the fence that housed the boundary of the anvil’s world. A mare and her colt—dark coats glistening in the springtime warmth. A petite Roan shaking its head at a pair of galloping Bays. They were beautiful, every one of them.

And then he understood. Watching the roaming steeds, their feet pushing, digging, tearing away from the ground—this was his purpose. His calling.

Their shoes. The U in the air. The pounding. The Farrier’s song, always the same.

It filled him with a profound joy. To see, to understand. All the world was open to him in an instant.

And then came the landing. Ground broke below him as though it were liquid before compressing into a thousand particles of resistance. Dust flew into the air, carrying with it the pieces of a thousand jobs—bits of him, bits of shoe, dust, pollen, horse hairs and metal fragments so small they danced on the current of rising heat.

The hollow clank of metal against metal sounded simultaneously as the horseshoe struck his bottom, ricocheting off before thudding to the ground next to him. He saw it in that moment—a bent and twisted version of what it could have been, smeared in dust.

He looked beyond it to see the beauty that was in its purpose—the bent leg powered by incredible muscle and grace. How could he have ever existed before knowing this world?

He liked everything about what had just happened. The falling, the spinning… even the landing. He especially liked the seeing. The hearing and the knowing.

He didn’t want it to end. He was terrified that he would go back to before. To nothing.

Would it all fade away?

Would he forget?

Would he know, but live forever without?

He didn’t know what was worse.

The return was smoother. Warm hands against cool metal lifted and spun him. He saw in an instant what was before—the wall. Dry rot and nothing. Sound without context. Dread. He was powerless to do anything about it.

Then, in the last second there was another turn. A hoisting sound escaped the man and then he was set. Only it wasn’t like before. He was turned on his axis, facing outward, taking in the warm spring breeze. Light and sound. Horses galloping.

Maybe he would fade yet. But for now he had the world.

The Farrier retrieved the twisted shoe from the ground, considering it before tossing it aside. He walked out of sight to put a new strip of iron into the forge. The song would begin again, and this time the anvil would sing with it.

Come back next week for another installment of Flash Friday!

Sign up for my mailing list for updates on bigger projects. Click the link to sign up and get a sample of Due North, releasing on May 26, 2020

To Pre-Order Due North on Kindle

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Kids

Birth of a Memory

By Jill N Davies

She was alone. Of course, she was used to being alone, but that didn’t change the existence of the knowledge of such a thing. She had Mommy and Daddy and phone with Gamma and Gampa, but that was it. That and knowing that the big outside was empty.

Knowledge was a powerful thing. It was like history, or existing right now.

Knowledge was also a new thing to for Ellie. It was like an extra awareness, or sense of the world. It added to the day—made toys more interesting, told her that chocolate was in the cupboard whether or not she ate her broccoli, and confirmed that Daddy existed even if the door to the office room was shut.

Knowledge also made Ellie crave something else.

“Mommy!”

“Yes baby?” her voice was always so kind. A balm she never realized she needed.

Ellie scrunched up her face in extreme concentration. It was too easy to disconnect the thoughts and the words. That ruined the whole effort.

“Go? Walking. Unnnit dem?”

She watched Mommy. It was the only way to determine that the message was received. Her stomach churned with excitement and apprehension. She fingered her plushie dog’s ear nervously as she waited.

“Okay. I’ll check to see if we can today, Sweetie.”

Too many words. But she knew okay. And she knew Sweetie was her. She had to keep watching.

Mommy looked at her screen with a scrunched up face. There was a big silence that lasted through a whole bunch of breaths. Ellie kept watching and thinking. Trying very hard to know.

“We’ve got a three-block radius right now with a mandatory recheck in an hour,” Mommy said. She turned to Ellie with a big smile, “Let’s go outside Kid.”

Ellie knew she was also Kid. Additionally, she knew that the request had worked. Outside meant walking, which meant she would get to continue her search. She stomped her feet in excitement as Mommy gathered their shoes from the locked room. She giggled so freely it almost sounded like a sob.

They did their shoes. Mommy’s then Ellie’s. Then came the masks and gloves and hats, next, the door. There were lots of clicks and turns and clanks and then it was open. Mommy reached for Ellie’s hand and they stepped out together.

Outside was always hot. Not hot like the stove or cooked cheese, but still hot. The ground was almost like cooked cheese if she put her hand on it, but the trees and plants and walls were usually less hot. Rocks were in between. She still hadn’t figured out the reason for the hot, or the why for the way everything was different hot. Mommy said it was the sun, but that didn’t make sense because the sun was up in the sky with the big brown clouds and it never touched the ground where it was the most-hot.

But that wasn’t what Ellie wanted to look for today—she needed to stay focused, which was a very hard thing for a two-year-old to do.

They moved down the pathway onto the sidewalk, turning left like always. Ellie squinted down the street, searching. Each step took her on a zig-zag trajectory that was the opposite of Mommy and Daddy’s smooth, straight forward motion.

She moved past the white fire hydrant with chips of smooth black showing through. Past the pricker-bushes in front of the saggy house. She moved so quickly that her lungs stung and Mommy called at her, “Slow down speedy!”

Ellie stopped by the wooden steps five houses away. It was a stopping place and she needed it. Mommy was right there, like always, but this time she waited while Ellie caught her breath. She watched Mommy to understand why the stopping was okay today.

Mommy’s eyes were far away, looking at something that Ellie hadn’t found yet. Her mouth was straight—not happy and not sad. She glanced back like she was checking on Ellie.

“We might have to turn back early today kiddo.”

She saw it then—movement coming from the edge of the street, on the other sidewalk. A Mommy. But there was more. Next to the Mommy, and small, just like her, another person walked. A kid.

She watched them as Mommy scooped her up, saying “Gotta go.”

Ellie should’ve been furious. All the looking. Then, she finally saw and Mommy scooped her away. She should’ve kicked and screamed and protested for “DOWN!” She should’ve been sobbing giant tears.

But she wasn’t.

Underneath the long white sleeves, hidden beneath the big hat and walking next to the Mommy was a kid. Seeing the kid did something inside of her—she felt it, knew it.

Blond hair sticking out of a red cap. Chubby hands grasping with warmth like Mommy’s hug. Giggles and squeals. Half a dozen little voices singing along with awkward gestures to “Itsy Bitsy.”

It was in her head but it was real—they were real. There were other kids and now she knew it. She could hear their voices on the inside just as clearly as she could hear the little voice on the other side of the street uttering an incoherent “Ahyee.”

Ellie kept her gaze focused on them as she wrapped her arm around Mommy’s neck. Enraptured she whispered into the soft, familiar crevice.

“Mommy, kids.”

“I know baby. You’re right. That’s a kid,” Mommy agreed as they made their way back home.

“Kids,” she said again, this time to herself. The image of the red cap, songs and swing overlapped with the walking duo.

“Someday you’ll be able to play. Someday you’ll understand,” Mommy said.

Ellie didn’t know what had happened, exactly, but she’d found what she’d been looking for. She wasn’t alone anymore. Under the burning sun, wrapped in the warmth of Mommy’s arms and retreating from the discovery, Ellie smiled.

The End

For more writing from Jill N Davies check back.

The next Flash Friday Fiction blog post will be 5/8/2020

Due North, Book 1 of the Kara Mason story is available for preorder on amazon.com! Get your copy today

Sign up for updates from Jill N Davies

In case you missed it, last week I made a sample of Due North available to all on my reader list.

This blog post is dedicated to making sure there’s a permanent place that you can access the link to sign up for my mailing list and get your free sample.

(If you did miss it, here’s the link:

I’ve also started to make some pretty big promises to the world about the book release date (also known as “Launch Date.”) Doesn’t it conjure images of rockets launching into space to explore the vast beyond and create great new beginnings? That’s definitely the sort of image I want publishing my book to conjure up.

It turns out that making a free sample available and announcing a LAUNCH DATE aren’t the only things that are happening in my little corner of the world. (PS—the world is round… technically spherical, so there aren’t any corners. It’s an expression. Also, things on this earth have corners and I happen to be hiding in one, sitting in a chair and furiously typing.)

https://gfycat.com/freshunfortunatelarva

I’ve got a lot cooking right now, including one tiny little human who happens to be growing and gestating inside of me at this very moment. She’s due to make her debut this summer and that’s a big part of what’s made me slightly hesitant to commit to specific dates. But we’re now officially close enough (to both the birth of my second child and the launch of my first novel) that I’m comfortable making commitments (to both the birth of my second child and the launch of my first novel.)

The formal announcement of the Launch Date for Due North is forthcoming this Friday.

But Wait, there’s more!

Not only will I be announcing the launch of Due North, but I’ll also be launching a new Blog segment called Flash Fridays. I’ll also do a Q&A for all subscribers and anyone who tunes in—about Due North and other projects I’ve got hot on the coles. I’ll be doing this with a LIVE reading (Facebook live, to be specific.)

You can connect with me on Facebook by clicking this link: https://www.facebook.com/JillNDaviesBooks

To be clear, the following things will happen LIVE on Friday afternoon as close to 3PM Pacific time as I can manage:

• Formal announcement of the Launch Date for Due North
• Reading of the first flash fiction short for the new Blog Segment Flash Fridays
• Announcement on other projects and their details
• Q&A segment
• I might stand up and show you how very pregnant I am, if I’m feeling good, that is

I’m hoping to keep this segment up for a while. Obviously I may miss a few weeks around when kid #2 makes her debut, but I should be back at it once we figure out how to parent two children at the same time.

Wanderers By Chuck Wendig was released summer of last year (2019)

It’s tough to pinpoint the genre of a book these days because most books can be categorized multiple ways. Amazon has it listed as Thriller & Suspense Action Fiction, Post-Apocalyptic Science Fiction, and Mystery Action & Adventure. I would agree with all of these categories. If someone said it was a medical thriller I’d probably say “sure, why not?” [shrugs]. But I think you get the idea. It’s for sure science fiction. There is for sure action, suspense, mystery, drama and thrills. If you like that sort of think then you’re really going to like this book.

The eye-catching book description on amazon (the one you have to click “read more” to completely see) reads:

“A decadent rock star. A deeply religious radio host. A disgraced scientist. And a teenage girl who may be the world’s last hope. From the mind of Chuck Wendig comes “a magnum opus . . . a story about survival that’s not just about you and me, but all of us, together” (Kirkus Reviews, starred review).

NOMINATED FOR THE BRAM STOKER AWARD • NAMED ONE OF THE BEST BOOKS OF THE YEAR BY The Washington Post • NPR • The Guardian • Kirkus Reviews • Publishers Weekly • Library Journal • Polygon

Shana wakes up one morning to discover her little sister in the grip of a strange malady. She appears to be sleepwalking. She cannot talk and cannot be woken up. And she is heading with inexorable determination to a destination that only she knows. But Shana and her sister are not alone. Soon they are joined by a flock of sleepwalkers from across America, on the same mysterious journey. And like Shana, there are other “shepherds” who follow the flock to protect their friends and family on the long dark road ahead.

For as the sleepwalking phenomenon awakens terror and violence in America, the real danger may not be the epidemic but the fear of it. With society collapsing all around them—and an ultraviolent militia threatening to exterminate them—the fate of the sleepwalkers depends on unraveling the mystery behind the epidemic. The terrifying secret will either tear the nation apart—or bring the survivors together to remake a shattered world.”

Straight from the Amazon Book Description

So right away you get a good glimpse at what you’re in for if you decide to crack this behemoth open and take a solid peak.

I’m going to go with a full disclaimer here and let you know that I didn’t read the synopsis before I grabbed my copy. I actually picked it after being exposed to it in a couple of different ways:

First, I stumbled on the cover when I was looking at cover art for books that shared genre tags with Due North. I liked it so I snagged it as a reference for my book artist. You’ve got to admit, it’s a snappy cover. You can’t miss the title, it’s got a real Midwestern vibe (complete with water tower) and a mysterious silhouette walking on an empty road.

If you look a little closer the cover also hints at the state of the world. The water tower has a frayed American flag (symbolic much?), is covered in weeds, and is likely going to fall soon seeing as the supports are broken. The emptiness also lends to the feel. Before March of 2020 it was hard to find empty spaces and roads.

I liked it right away, but I didn’t really have any intention of reading it. I was busy editing my own novel and looking for more covers, but it stuck with me.

A few months later I saw a twitter post from someone reading Wanderers. The gist of it was that it was taking a long time to get through the book because [life, etc] were very distracting. But, the post suggested that it was okay that it was taking forever because reading the book was so dang rewarding. (Talk about a glowing review!!)

I should have surmised from the post that the book was big, but I didn’t. I’ve been there—in that phase of life where it feels like a real victory to read 5 sentences before the next big thing happens and I forget about reading for the next two days. In fact, I’ve spent most of the last decade sipping at books rather than gulping because I’m always busy.

Miraculously, I’ve managed to read quite a few books this way. By getting in 5 sentences here and a page there I’ve consumed more than a hundred books in the last 5 years (another disclaimer—I actually stopped counting when I reached 100 in my recently read, so I have no idea how many more than 100 I’ve actually read). That may not be a lot to some, but I feel pretty good about it. ß This is my official endorsement of sipping books if you feel like you’re too busy to read.

Now back to Wanderers…

Have I mentioned it’s a long book? I did, didn’t I. It’s big. If you do a quick internet search of the average length of a book the first answer that pops up is about 300-400 pages, or 80,000-100,000 words. It feels right too, seeing as I’ve held a lot of books in my hands and scrolled through a lot of ebook content. (And this answer can be confirmed by actual data that analyzes the book length of not just recent books, but huge libraries of past and present books as well.)

There are exceptions to this rule, of course. Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix is 257,045 words. A Game of Thrones is 298,000 words, The Fellowship of the Ring comes in at 187,790 words and by Chuck Wendig’s own admission Wanderers comes in at 280,000 words.

That’s 800 pages.

But before you shy away from cracking it open because it’s big… c’mon, be honest with me. Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix was a breeze to read through, wasn’t it? You can do this!

What should you expect if you decide to read Wanderers:

First things first: This book meanders. The first few bits don’t get to the monkey (but you do get to learn about some other, really interesting and compelling wildlife). Then, once the plot is really rolling there’s an aside to another story that doesn’t seem like it fits into the major plot.

But have no fear!

Because while you’re reading this wandering plot, with stories that slowly twist and turn until they’re tightly wound together, you’re really being treated.

The writing is top-notch. It’s been a while since I’ve read a book that had such a pleasing narrative. I regularly found myself smiling at little descriptions and turns of phrases. Lots of books get the job done with writing that’s just that—writing. Wendig both gets it done and treats you to a pleasant brain massage done by well-put-together words.

It’s exciting: Even the parts that don’t make sense at first are interesting. The action is done well, but not overdone, and the mystery is just enough to keep you guessing without getting bored while you wait for the big reveal.

The big reveals are great: When the book finally gives you the ah-ha! moments you know are coming, they don’t disappoint. Some I guessed and some caught me completely by surprise. It’s a nice mix.

The book has some dark moments: I’m going to level with you—Wanderers is not always a rosy story. Tough things happen. A part or two were hard for me to read. I’d like to say that it’s because I’m the sensitive sort and need some hand holding when hard things happen to well-developed characters, but I think most people are going to have a hard time at least once or twice in the story.

The reason is twofold: First, reading about violence, assault, and injustice is just plain hard. I particularly struggle with injustice. It hurts my soul. Second, when a character, likable or not, is well developed, they feel real. It’s much harder to witness (by virtue of words) a difficult thing happening to a character that feels real. This happens more than once.

But you’re probably going to be okay: Did you watch Game of Thrones? Seeing as HBO predicts that about 32.8 million people watched, there’s a good chance the answer is yes. GOT is way worse when it comes to hard things, and the most talked about thing when it comes to the show isn’t the violence or injustice—it’s the bad ending. Which means that in the end people were pretty okay with the hard things.

Basically, I’m strongly encouraging you to give it a shot.

Maybe you haven’t heard of Wanderers until this very post. I know that’s not exactly the most likely thing in the world, since Wendig is a New York Times bestseller, but let’s entertain the notion that this book hasn’t been on your radar.

It should be.

• If you’re scouring Netflix for the latest apocalypse release.
• If you can’t get enough zeitgeist.
• If you like action and scifi anyway.
• If you have 5 minutes extra in your day.

Give it a shot. You can hold me accountable if it isn’t for you. We’ll talk about it. Maybe over tea or coffee. If you’re really upset, maybe I’ll get out the bourbon, but let’s face it—you probably won’t be.

In the meantime, let me know what other genre-specific things you’re interested in? Something you want me to review? I want to hear from you!