Lost Years by MK Schiller
Publication date: September 16th, 2019
Publisher: Entangled Publishing
Synopsis (according to Goodreads):
Ever had a dream so real it feels like a memory?
I've had those kinds of dreams since I was a kid. Each one of a beautiful girl, who is my best friend. We grow up together on a sunny island surrounded by water that's as blue as her eyes. We share all our hopes and fears until we realize we belong to each other in every way one person claim another. She is my own personal serenity. Sweet story, eh?
Well forget about it.
The cold, harsh reality is that I'm a twenty-year-old, Manhattan-bred, manwhore, who uses his fists to solve his problems. The only comfort I find is inside a bottle... and the dreams. But the dreams are my illness not my cure. Just when things look the darkest, the sun slaps me square in the jaw. I spot a picture of a scenic island surrounding by the bluest water--my island.
If the island exists then so much the girl, right?
So I'm headed to Serenity, Texas to find my girl and make some sense out of the chaos that is my life. Feel free to tag along, but this journey comes with a steep warning--dreams can turn into nightmares in the blink of an eye.
My name is Jason Flynn and this is our story.
Available at:
I tickled her ribcage, rolling us over. I would regret this. Her giggles made me hard all over again and I fought against the urge to hear one of her moans. "Funny, smartass. You owe me a ghost story. Go."
"I don't have any ghost stories."
My fingers paused. "Then tell me something that scares you so we're even."
"Santa Claus."
"Are you fucking with me?"
"I swear it's true."
My eyes blinked in disbelief. "Santa. Not axe murderers, serial killers, or clowns?"
"Oh no, those things are scary too, but you said one thing. This is in keeping with the theme of your story."
I moved off her, crossed my arms under my head, and laid on my back. "What about St. Nick freaks you out, Texas?"
"You can't laugh." She bit her bottom lip. I struggled because I wanted to bite it too.
"Okay."
"Do better than that." She held out her pinky to me. I curled mine around hers.
"Get on with the story." God, I wanted to taste her again. Taste her everywhere.
"Okay, so I was six or seven. Before my father left for that one-of-a-kind brand of smokes, he decided to take us to visit my grandparents for the holidays. As usual, my mom was pissed at him. She complained the whole way that we should've gone to her relatives. It was constant griping about the car being too hot and that he needed to find a job.
"She brought up his promise to take me to see Santa. It was her way of guilting him. We were on some back road when he pulled over at the small hole in the wall country store. The kind that sells homemade jams and ammunition. Oh, and of course, cigarettes.
It must have been fate because there was a sign announcing Santa would be there. My dad gave my mom one of those 'I planned this all along looks.' Random, right?"
"Yeah, it is."
"Anyway, we had to wait since Santa was running late... My mom complained about that too, but she lightened up when my dad told her to buy something nice for herself. After an hour, Santa finally showed up."
"And he turned out to be an old creepy guy?"
She grinned, undoing the last braid she'd made. She combed her fingers through the strands. "No, he was wonderful. He had a real beard and everything. Since I was the only kid in the place, I got to spend a lot of time with him. He listened while I rattled on about all the dumb stuff I wanted. He even asked me questions."
"Then why are you afraid of him?"
"That didn't happen until later. When we finally left I saw this huge shiny red pick-up in the parking lot. The front was decorated with garland. The words, 'Santa's Sleigh' were painted on the side. My father got some dad feelings and said, 'look Scar, that right there is Santa's truck.'" She made a hand gesture imitating the scene. "I asked him why Santa didn't have his real sleigh.
"Dad said ti was because his sleigh could only be used on Christmas Eve. When he was doing normal Santa stuff, he used the truck. I got really excited and thought my present might be in the back. That made total sense, right?"
"It kind of does."
"Well, before my dad could stop me, I ran around and jumped on the tailgate. I lifted the blue tarp covering the truck bed and stuck my head inside." She shivered, the goose bumps on her arms visible. "I've never been the same since."
I tensed with her narration. "What the hell was in there?" I rubbed her arms. My head ran through a montage of horror films, each image worse than the last.
"The bloody corpse of a ten-point buck."
If I'd been drinking something, I would have choked. "You're kidding."
"I wish. Turns out Santa was a hunter. The reason he ran so late was because he'd had himself a nice kill. The whole trip home, I screamed, "Santa shot Dancer. Santa shot Dancer. Dancer is dead. I have no clue why I thought it was Dancer, and not one of the other reindeer. But ever since then, Santa freaks me out. I even stopped leaving cookies out after that."
"I don't have any ghost stories."
My fingers paused. "Then tell me something that scares you so we're even."
"Santa Claus."
"Are you fucking with me?"
"I swear it's true."
My eyes blinked in disbelief. "Santa. Not axe murderers, serial killers, or clowns?"
"Oh no, those things are scary too, but you said one thing. This is in keeping with the theme of your story."
I moved off her, crossed my arms under my head, and laid on my back. "What about St. Nick freaks you out, Texas?"
"You can't laugh." She bit her bottom lip. I struggled because I wanted to bite it too.
"Okay."
"Do better than that." She held out her pinky to me. I curled mine around hers.
"Get on with the story." God, I wanted to taste her again. Taste her everywhere.
"Okay, so I was six or seven. Before my father left for that one-of-a-kind brand of smokes, he decided to take us to visit my grandparents for the holidays. As usual, my mom was pissed at him. She complained the whole way that we should've gone to her relatives. It was constant griping about the car being too hot and that he needed to find a job.
"She brought up his promise to take me to see Santa. It was her way of guilting him. We were on some back road when he pulled over at the small hole in the wall country store. The kind that sells homemade jams and ammunition. Oh, and of course, cigarettes.
It must have been fate because there was a sign announcing Santa would be there. My dad gave my mom one of those 'I planned this all along looks.' Random, right?"
"Yeah, it is."
"Anyway, we had to wait since Santa was running late... My mom complained about that too, but she lightened up when my dad told her to buy something nice for herself. After an hour, Santa finally showed up."
"And he turned out to be an old creepy guy?"
She grinned, undoing the last braid she'd made. She combed her fingers through the strands. "No, he was wonderful. He had a real beard and everything. Since I was the only kid in the place, I got to spend a lot of time with him. He listened while I rattled on about all the dumb stuff I wanted. He even asked me questions."
"Then why are you afraid of him?"
"That didn't happen until later. When we finally left I saw this huge shiny red pick-up in the parking lot. The front was decorated with garland. The words, 'Santa's Sleigh' were painted on the side. My father got some dad feelings and said, 'look Scar, that right there is Santa's truck.'" She made a hand gesture imitating the scene. "I asked him why Santa didn't have his real sleigh.
"Dad said ti was because his sleigh could only be used on Christmas Eve. When he was doing normal Santa stuff, he used the truck. I got really excited and thought my present might be in the back. That made total sense, right?"
"It kind of does."
"Well, before my dad could stop me, I ran around and jumped on the tailgate. I lifted the blue tarp covering the truck bed and stuck my head inside." She shivered, the goose bumps on her arms visible. "I've never been the same since."
I tensed with her narration. "What the hell was in there?" I rubbed her arms. My head ran through a montage of horror films, each image worse than the last.
"The bloody corpse of a ten-point buck."
If I'd been drinking something, I would have choked. "You're kidding."
"I wish. Turns out Santa was a hunter. The reason he ran so late was because he'd had himself a nice kill. The whole trip home, I screamed, "Santa shot Dancer. Santa shot Dancer. Dancer is dead. I have no clue why I thought it was Dancer, and not one of the other reindeer. But ever since then, Santa freaks me out. I even stopped leaving cookies out after that."
About the Author:
Not knowing a word of English, MK Schiller came to America at the age of four from India. Since then, all she's done is collect words. After receiving the best gift ever from her parents--her very own library card--she began reading everything she could get her greedy hands on. At sixteen, a friend asked her to make up a story featuring the popular bad boy at school. This wasn't fan fiction... it was friend fiction. From that day on, she's known she wanted to be a writer. With the goal of making her readers both laugh and cry, MK Schiller has penned more than a dozen books, each one filled with misfit characters overcoming obstacles and finding true love.
Website / Newsletter / Facebook / FB Page / FB Misfits Group / FB Novel Sirens Group / Twitter / Goodreads / Instagram / Amazon / Bookbub / Linktree
Hosted by:
