For The Love of Writing. Obsession, Balance, and Time - A Conversation With Gabriel Blake.

This guest post has been a long time coming so, at the outset, I have to begin by apologizing to the author Gabriel Blake for my tardiness. 

Now that's been said, I am really pleased to introduce you to an outstanding British writer and genuine human being. I met Gabriel recently and was introduced to his gripping psychological thriller "The Mother Of All Things", which has quickly gone to the top of my best reads so far this year. 

Author Gabriel Blake (image credit Gabriel Blake).

Gabriel has been wonderfully supportive, both of me and a community of independent authors all around the web, sharing advice, hints and tips and generally helping others out with the minutiae of author marketing. He's actually one of the key reasons that social media remains something worth engaging with.

Before we get to the man himself, let me give you a quick look at the book that sprang forth from this brilliant mind.

(image credit: Gabriel Blake).

It was supposed to be a new beginning for Elaine Davis. Returning to her childhood home in North Yorkshire, she hopes to move on from a devastating past and rebuild her life with the help of her mother and children. Sometimes though, new beginnings in familiar surroundings can come with the stirrings of memories long forgotten. As Elaine’s mind begins to unravel, discoveries of deceit and betrayal reveal themselves and circumstances spiral beyond her control. Elaine must fight to hold on to her sanity; unless of course, she has already lost it?

When I reviewed "The Mother Of All Things" back in July this year, I praised it as an absorbing, disturbing and kinetic thriller that balances a tight rope between a conventional whodunnit and a Gothic horror. Blake commands this tome with a skillful hand wherein you're never quite sure what state of existence the real world lies. 

Elaine Bennett, Blake's tortured protagonist, is a fascinating character as the events in the story unfold and the deepening psychological disturbances she endures hint at a whole other subplot keep the reader engaged. Blake executes his mystery competently, and there's a satisfying interactivity to it that had me going back to check and double check a couple of plot points to see if I was putting things together. That, to me, was fun and it kept me invested. The action is taut, confronting to be sure but it kept me on the edge of my seat and had me looking over my shoulder once or twice in the darkness of my own living room. 

The Mother Of All Things is a worthy thriller off which Gabriel Blake should be justly proud.

So let me now hand you over to Gabriel as he explores the things that are common to us writers. 



First of all, I’d like to thank Dean Mayes for being so kind as to invite me to write a guest post on his website. I’d also like to wish him every success with his new novel The Artisan Heart, which I am looking forward to reading.

Obsession, Balance, and Time play a huge part in our lives. It has had a detrimental effect on my life. I didn't realise this until fairly recently when it was rightly brought to my attention. 
Looking back through my life, I have had this terrible habit of being all or nothing with no in-between. It’s not an easy habit to break and it can also become unhealthy. In the latter years of my job in property maintenance, I would leave the house before 5am and sometimes not return home until 10pm or later. All because I wanted to get an empty flat repaired, cleaned, and redecorated in one day. I’d go the entire day without a break and food was out of the question. Eating would take up too much precious time, time when more work could be done. Time was my enemy!

(image credit: Gabriel Blake).

I don’t know why I forced and pushed myself to do this. It would later be pointed out to me that this was a form of self-harm. I was punishing myself and they were right. It is something I have always done.

We don’t know the exact moment when our lives develop particular behavioural patterns. Unwanted traits that sneak up on us and become part of who we are. Among many imperfections is obsession, which can co-exist with addiction. Mingled together, the pair can be challenging to rectify. Obsessions can be either productive, unproductive, or destructive.

Unproductive obsessions stem from our anxieties, putting a block on the productive side of our lives. We let our worries, fears and doubts hold us back from the obsessions we would prefer to have. Wouldn't it be better to have obsessions about our interests and passions, those that fuel our creative side? 

(image credit: Ian Emes.)

I finally found the time in my life to write my first novel and do something that had always interested me. In writing, I found passion, fire, and a helping hand to fight off depression and anxiety. I’d like nothing more than to write all day and night if it helps me escape what I like to call the quiet noise inside my head.

This is where balance comes into play. We can’t simply switch off every other aspect of life. We may have a family, partners to consider, or household matters that have to be dealt with. As much as we wish they could, everyday issues, problems, interruptions can’t be ignored. Finding the balance and control of your productive obsession is the only way to prevent it from becoming a destructive obsession, which in turn will take you back down the unproductive road to where you began.

Time! I have always had a problem with time in general. How long something will take and setting myself unrealistic targets. Then my anxiety kicks in and I become a complete mess. I’m sure I’m not the only one who obsesses over time; at least I hope I’m not. This is one of my obsessive compulsions I’m trying hard to control. While writing my debut novel, I put myself under so much pressure, and for what! I had no agent or publisher to keep happy. 

There was no deadline. I lost count of how many release dates I announced. This is something I’m aiming not to repeat. 

My message here is simple:

For the love of writing or whatever your creative interest may be, never underestimate the power of obsession, balance, and time.

Purchase "The Mother Of All Things" here.

Visit Gabriel Blake here.

Tweet with Gabriel Blake here.

DFA.

Meet The Recipient - Release Day.

The Recipient, the kinetic and pulse pounding new psychological thriller from Australian author and Intensive Care Nurse Dean Mayes is officially available where ever good books are sold. 

Set in Melbourne, Australia, Mayes' immersive novel follows a troubled young heart transplant recipient, Casey Schillinge who, in the aftermath of her life saving surgery, begins to have terrifying nightmares that slowly drive her towards the edge of madness. In a quest to understand the reasons why, Casey makes a shocking discovery about the fate of her donor and is soon drawn into a deadly conspiracy that will threaten her life all over again. 

Featuring Mayes' signature style and engaging characters, The Recipient has already earned significant praise as a gripping thriller, a smart and meticulous mystery and family drama with a lot of heart.

Purchase The Recipient now in print or digital format from the following retailer, or ask for The Recipient by name at your favourite book seller.

                

The Recipient is Dean Mayes' third full length novel for Central Avenue Publishing and is distributed internationally by Independent Publisher's Group. 

DFA.

Phoenix Rising - A Look At New World Rising by Jennifer Wilson.

There has been a consistent "kicked up a notch" evolution in young adult fiction occurring ever since the advent of the Twilight series (the books - not the films) back in 2005. Where it began with a focus on the paranormal - vampires and werewolves, angels and demons, zombies and the undead; all of which borrowing heavily from classic mythology - this evolution has steadily moved towards much grittier and original style of story telling with a decidedly more dystopian take on the world. Hence we've seen the like of The Hunger Games, The Divergent series and, more recently The 100.

I've long been drawn to these dystopian visions of a near future world that have their roots in the psychedelic fiction of authors like Phillip K. Dick (Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep, A Scanner Darkly) Cormac McCarthy (The Road) and their celluloid counterparts George Miller (Mad Max) and Ridley Scott (Bladerunner). I think I have an attraction to anarchy and the resourcefulness of ordinary people who are given the chance to prevail when orthodox society fails.

This vision of a possible future is no better illustrated in a 2014 dystopian young adult thriller called New World: Rising by author Jennifer Wilson.

(image credit: JK Wilson.)

From the liner notes:

Since witnessing her parents' murders at the age of eleven, Phoenix's only purpose in life has been to uphold her mother's dying words- to be strong and survive. But surviving outside of The Walls- outside of The Sanctuary- is more like a drawn-out death sentence. A cruel and ruthless city, Tartarus is run by the Tribes whose motto is simple, "Join or die." 

Refusing to join and determined to live, Phoenix fights to survive in this savage world. But who can she trust, when no one can be trusted? Not even herself.

With an atmosphere that calls back to those classic works of dystopian fiction, Wilson's New World: Rising is an electrifying first salvo in what promises to be a series that exemplifies all the great things about the genre. From the get go, we are introduced to a broken world in an undefined period of the near future. Society has broken down and reorganized itself into a set of Tribes - each of which possesses a different view of humanity from the virtuous to the animalistic. For the majority of these Tribes, the object of survival is merely to exist, rather than to advance or recapture the notion of enlightened society and, as such, the New World exists in a state of chaos. 

We enter this New World through the eyes of Phoenix, a enigmatic young woman who deliberately isolates herself and moves through the world a loner. While her background is unclear from the outset, she clings to the notion of a civilization that once was that was impressed upon her by her long dead parents. She is a voracious reader, gathering the discarded books of a long forgotten city library - partly for use as currency as she moves through the shattered city known only as Tartarus - and partly for her own education. She is also resourceful, intelligent and nimble - essential ingredients for survival in the chaos. She is a survivor and while it seems that Phoenix sees the world as hopeless, she does hold within her a spark of hope. 

When Phoenix intervenes to save an 10 year old girl from a band of animalistic Ravegers, she is captured by agents of a mysterious underground conclave. Known as The Subversive, Phoenix finds herself introduced to a Tribe whose existence owes itself to being a splinter of the only remaining 'enlightened' society - known as The Sanctuary. The Subversive have a vendetta against The Sanctuary and Phoenix quickly finds herself propelled into a conflict where her family legacy will become a bargaining chip in a full scale battle for survival. 

Wilson's novel crackles with energy and atmosphere from the get go and her skill with world building is among the best I've read. The world of the future is a devastated, gritty and depressing morass that totally sucks you in. When you find yourself presented with fragments of our civilized past, they evoke an emotional response that keeps you invested. 

Wilson's use of the first person narrative is absorbing, allowing for a immediate psychological experience of a young woman who is trying to survive in a post apocalyptic wasteland. When we are introduced to the conclave of The Subversive, Wilson presents a complex Tribe trying to retain a semblance of organized society that values nurturing, education and advancement while offsetting that with a dangerous sense of justice that does not tolerate infractions of any kind. The Subversive can be as brutal as it is enlightened.

The supporting cast that Phoenix encounters are as equally appealing. Triven, the nominal leader of The Subversive, acts as guide to Phoenix in her initiation into the Tribe as well as a romantic interest who awakens in her feelings and a humanity that she thought she didn't possess, There is the outwardly cold and unfeeling Arstid, who is a much more complex character than we are lead to see, driven by an agenda couched in tragedy and a desire for absolution. And there is Mouse, the mute child Phoenix rescues at the outset, who awakens a maternal sense in Phoenix that adds further weight to her nascent humanity. Mouse's importance to the story is satisfyingly obscure in this first entry but Wilson hints that her importance will be explored further in subsequent entries. 

The efficiency of Jennifer Wilson's writing is outstanding and she does not labor too long in anyone place before moving the narrative forward. Her action scenes are cinematic, breathtaking and surgical in their precision and I would have loved to have been a fly on the wall in Wilson's study as she was mapping these out. Her grasp of post apocalyptic politics is a joy to read and to ponder upon and I found myself thinking about this aspect of the story long after I had finished.

And New World: Rising is as entertaining as hell, keeping the reader locked into their seat for a thrilling ride that culminates in crackling climax, leaving the door open for a highly anticipated follow up. 

A thoroughly deserved 5 Stars. 

(image credit: JK Wilson.)

As a child Jennifer loved getting lost in the stories of others, but struggled greatly with reading. A notoriously slow reader who stumbled with words and spelling, Jennifer shied away from books, leaning heavily on musical theater and movies to get her inspirational fix.

It was not until in her mid-teens, when a persistent friend convinced her to read the Harry Potter series, that Jennifer found her love for the written word. J.K. Rowling’s books opened doors not only to the fascinating world of a young wizard, but to a life filled with a multitude of literary friends and fantastical worlds. Once a timid reader, Jennifer now devours books and loves getting lost in a new series.

Jennifer had wanted to write her own novel since her early twenties, but unfortunately inspiration doesn’t always strike on command. Her first book, The Chosen, was completed in 2013. But as most first attempts go, it was a flop. While looking through a multitude of rejection letters, inspiration struck again, putting Grace’s story got on hold as Phoenix’s began.

New World: Rising began to fill Jennifer’s brain, flowing like a fully opened valve from her fingertips. What was once such a struggle in her early years suddenly became a passion.

When Jennifer is not writing, she is enjoying life in Colorado, rock climbing, camping, exploring new foods, playing with her golden retriever, Duke, and sharing her life with her handsome and wonderful husband.

Purchase New World: Rising here.

Visit Jennifer Wilson here.

Connect with Jennifer Wilson here.

Tweet with Jennifer Wilson here. 

DFA.

On May 1st - You Will Meet The Recipient.

Talking The Recipient With Jogcast Radio.

Recently I sat down with broadcaster Alan R. Ryan from Jogcast Radio and together we had a wide ranging discussion about my writing career to date and how it has culminated in the much anticipated release of my new novel The Recipient.

Over about an hour we talked about where my creative impulse came from, how a certain pop culture franchise influenced my desire to tell stories and how I have refined what I now call "The Method" that I use in my own writing journey.

DOWNLOAD MP3 (Right Click then "Save As...").

DFA.

Pre-Order The Recipient Now.

Seeing Double - A Look At The Doppelganger by P. Wish.

Having completed work on my own psychological thriller and engaging in discussion with other authors who have written in the genre, I am discovering some really unique and exciting stories emerging in this space. 

One such author, Manchester based, P. Wish and I found one another recently through a great discussion on book trailers and I quickly found myself drawn to her own exciting project which will launch world wide this week. 

The Doppelganger, a psychological thriller set in Chicago, promises all the great hallmarks of genre fiction, featuring, among other things, a strong but flawed female protagonist. 

Doppelganger (image credit: P. Wish).

From the liner notes;

‘They say when you meet somebody that looks just like you, you die.’

Darcy Godfrey lives a seemingly normal life as a librarian in Chicago. One day, she comes across a blog that is filled with accounts of her past. The blogger, known as 'D', seems to know everything about her life- even things that Darcy cannot remember. 

Things begin to go wrong when her nemesis is murdered, making her a suspect. Now, Darcy must find the person behind the blog before it's too late."

From the early reading I've been lucky enough to do on this book, The Doppelganger promises to be a tense and exciting thriller - and, if I may be so bold, it kinda feels like a spiritual sister to The Recipient.

Darcy Godfrey is an enticing character, replete with a tragic backstory that informs much of her presence in the novel. She is subsequently flawed and functions better as a loner - a'la Jessica Jones, which I think is really appealing. She also promises to be resourceful in the face of a terrifying antagonist who will push her to her limit. Wish's writing style is immediate and she instantly draws you into a dense and fully realized Chicago. In the exclusive excerpt for The Doppelganger (re-printed here with kind permission from the author) mood and tension are introduced from the get go - a great hook for this kind of genre fiction - and they lay the foundations for what promises to be a cracking ride.

I think it is our time. The psychological thriller feels as though it is emerging from out of the *cough* Twilight *cough* shadows as *the* next big thing in publishing and I am excited by voices like P. Wish who are bringing freshness to the genre. 

Author P. Wish (image credit: P. Wish).

P. Wish is an author of psychological thrillers and mysteries. She is a Law graduate from the University of Manchester, UK. The Doppelganger is her debut novel.

Excerpt: The Doppelganger by P. Wish.

Darcy’s eyes hung over the blog post. Her larynx felt like a thorn in her throat. She could barely breathe. Her heartbeat took over her ears. She teared up. She caught them before they fell on the keyboard. 

It was not a mere blog post. It was her story. 

Who the hell was this woman? 

Darcy clicked on ‘About’. The screen refreshed. A white image floated up the screen. It was a caricature. No photo. No name. No explanation. Just one useless cartoon of something that looked like a woman- from an angle. 

She scrolled down for the author bio. 

‘D is a thirty-something who lives in the city. She enjoys reading and writing about her life, especially her childhood.’ 

No Facebook. No Twitter. No Instagram. No expanded bio. Nothing. 

Just those two sentences. 

Darcy’s mind reeled. She clicked on the ‘contact’ page. At least, the blog had one. 

At the end of the page was an inconspicuous ‘Contact me’ icon. Darcy clicked on it. A contact form appeared. Blank white spaces, contrasting against the black background, haunted her. 

Her fingers drummed violently against the keypad. She re-read the e-mail. How was she supposed to ask the writer about her past? Maybe she wasn’t alone in this. There was someone else who had experienced something similar. The realization filled Darcy with hope. After all these years, she found a ray of hope. She couldn’t let it slip away. 

She quickly typed out an e-mail. She didn’t send it. 

She decided to wait for the next blog post. She deleted the e-mail and turned on the television. Her fingers restlessly traced patterns on the couch. She fidgeted with her phone. 

Curiosity nibbled at her. 

The final draft was only one sentence long. She read the words on the page. 

Who are you? 

The Doppelganger is out internationally on March 24th 2016.

Pre-order The Doppelganger here.

Visit P. Wish here. 

Connect with P. Wish here. 

Tweet with P. Wish here. 

Goodreads with P. Wish here. 

DFA.

The Recipient - Exclusive Extract from Dean Mayes.

This week, I'd like to share an exclusive extract from my upcoming psychological thriller, The Recipient which is available for pre-order now at Amazon and The Book Depository. Taken from the early chapter of the novel, this passage introduces Casey Schillinge - 3 years after her life saving heart transplant. In that time, Casey has undergone a tectonic change - and not all of it has been good. 

Enjoy...

A masculine fist rapped three times against the green metal
of a huge industrial door that faced onto a darkened corridor.
The owner of that hand, a tall and angular middle-aged male
dressed in an expensive grey suit stepped back, crossed his hands
low across his front, and waited patiently.

He couldn’t be sure if he could hear anybody behind the door,
though a cursory glance at the floor revealed a thin shaft of light
coming from inside.

Waiting patiently, he was distracted by the faint aroma of cinnamon
that seemed to surround him here in this dark and dingy hall.
A single light globe that dangled from a cobwebbed cable above his
head flickered in the gloom, illuminating the remnant of a painted
sign on the brick wall beside him. 

Mitchell & Sons Granary Supply, in a faded, antique font, was
declared proudly over an image of a pair of Clydesdale horses.
They were hauling a vintage wooden wagon, piled high with what
the man assumed were sacks of grain. Curiously, the visual cue
touched off an olfactory hallucination within him. He thought he
could detect the scent of oats—a hint to this building’s long forgotten
past.

He checked the face of his Tag Heuer watch and scowled. It was
10PM—a ridiculous time to be conducting business, he thought. He
had been given little choice, however. His superiors’ instructions to
him were explicit: Be at this address no earlier than 10PM and no
later than 10:05PM.

His lips shifted into a fleeting, ironic smile.

He would bet his left testicle that the instruction had come not
from his superiors, but from their contractor. And that very contractor
had earned a reputation for a being a hard arse.

Suddenly the green door groaned on its track and rumbled
sideways, revealing a petite young woman. Her tousled wet hair
was a dark nut-brown. He thought he saw hints of red in it, but he
couldn’t be sure. Upon first glance, it appeared to be a short bob
tied back in a pony tail, but he noticed that both the back and sides
were shaved close to the skin. A long fringe hung low over her large
green eyes. Those eyes were ringed by liner that made her appear
almost Gothic. Though her features were attractive and feminine,
her powdery visage was stony, dangerous even.

She wore a grey, long-sleeved Lycra gym top that hugged her
lithe figure and ended at the waist.

His eyes, almost involuntarily, scanned downward as he noticed
that she wore bikini bottoms only; her long legs and slender feet
were bare.

The corner of his left eyebrow raised appreciatively.

“What do you want?” the young woman snapped, jolting him
from his procession of impure thoughts.

She folded her arms across her chest and leaned against the
door frame suggestively, maintaining an interrogatory glare at the
stranger before her.

“Schillinge?” he queried, shifting uncomfortably.

She nodded once.

“Is it done?”

Wordlessly, she reached down to the elastic waist of her bikini
bottoms and plucked forth an object.

The man watched as she flipped the shining golden object into
her palm and held it up for him to see. It was no bigger than a stick
of gum; an ingot that was perfectly smooth and shining in the halflight.

With a flick of her hand, one end of the ingot suddenly swung
open on a hinge revealing its true nature as an ingenious, delicate
container.

The man leaned in closer to see and found himself gazing down
on the small ingot. His brow furrowed. Squinting in the low light
of the darkened hallway, he attempted focus on something printed
on the high capacity USB key, but all he could make out was a
symbol—a single octagon etched into the golden surface.

He looked up at Casey. “Is that it?” he questioned incredulously.
Casey merely shrugged.

Slowly, the man reached up to take the key from her when, without
warning, the lid snapped shut and she whipped it away before
he even registered what she had done.

“Money first,” Casey snapped as the man blinked at her.

Brushing down his jacket, the man reached into his inner pocket
and took out a thin rectangular box. He held it out and she took it,
stuffing it into the elastic of her bikini bottoms. Without taking her
eyes off him, she handed over the golden key.

The man took it and pocketed it, then glanced down at her hip,
at the shining rectangular tin tucked there.

“You’re not gonna check it?” he queried.

She allowed herself a smirk.

“I designed your people’s system, remember? You fuck me over,
all I have to do is press a key.”

The man grinned. “They told me that you’re a hard-on,” he
leered. “So, all they have to do is plug this in?”

Casey nodded. “It’ll do the rest. Deployment should take a half
hour at the most. Your entire network will be upgraded to the new
protocols, as per the contract.”

The man raised one eyebrow, impressed. “Sounds good.”
Casey watched as he turned on his heel and disappeared down
the stairs. Once he was out of sight, she retreated into the semidark-
ness of her warehouse apartment, locking the heavy green door
behind her.

In stark contrast to the dingy hallway outside the door, Casey
Schillinge’s apartment was an altogether different environment.
The converted granary and flour mill offered a spacious living space
that was modern and comfortable while incorporating elements of
its historical past. A fully equipped, yet minimalist, kitchen lay to
her right while a luxurious living area occupied the space to her left.
Two leather sofas sat facing one another, watched over by a large,
flat panel TV and entertainment centre. Up a steel staircase that was
bolted to the exposed brick wall was a mezzanine level populated
by a master bedroom and bathroom. Casey hardly ever went up
there. It acted as little more than storage. Near a large window and
balcony that extended the full width of the building, the space had
been converted into a stylish bedroom that was divided from the
main living area by a tall, Gothic-styled wardrobe.

It was an item in the centre of the apartment, through which
Casey passed now, that presented the most divergent example of
decor in the otherwise stylish home. A large architectural workbench
with a tempered glass surface stood in middle of the room.

On it sat an LCD screen and a keyboard that had been fashioned
from a piece of glass. The light from the LCD screen accounted for
much of the apartment’s illumination presently, bathing everything
in its immediate proximity in a turquoise light. The work bench, the
screen, and keyboard were her tools of trade.

She set down the metallic cash box and she regarded the LCD
screen fleetingly. With a quick tap of the glass surface adjacent to
the keyboard, the screen went dark; its unearthly glow vanquished
for the time being. Casey considered opening the case, but she decided
to leave it untouched.

Having performed work for this particular client several times
before, she knew they were good for the money. And she knew the
payment was considerable.

For the past three years, Casey had employed her remarkable
skill set—gleaned from her double degree in mathematics and com-
puter science—and directed it into a career in which she operated
on the edge.

On one hand, she contracted herself out to big businesses, providing
her expertise in constructing and maintaining security systems
and network infrastructure that was considered second to none. On
the other, Casey performed work for various underground groups
who would be considered an enemy of the legitimate corporate interests
from which she earned her considerable living.

She was a “grey hat” in every sense.

A grey hat who was, finally, in between jobs.

This latest contract—the construction of a particularly complex
security system for a prominent investment firm—had consumed
her life for the past three months. It had involved writing a state-of-the-
art encryption language from scratch, deploying it across a vast
network, then testing it for weaknesses and flaws which she then
had to eliminate one by one, before testing the system again. She
put in long hours, had rarely left her apartment and had thought
of little else other than the contract. Now, with the exchange of her
signature gold-plated USB key with the company’s representative,
she had nothing left to apply herself to—at least for now. Casey
could finally relax.

But therein lay a unique and difficult dilemma.

Casey turned from the desk and faced the exposed brick wall
that separated the living area from the en suite bathroom. Hanging
from the bricks there, bathed now in a soft orange hue from
a street lamp outside, was a painting by the impressionist master
Modigliani.

The woman in the painting looked down on Casey with overtly
large, expressive eyes and lips that curled upward ever so slightly
in a smile that could, for all the world, have been meant for Casey
herself. Auburn hair hung down on either side of her elongated
features. There was a beauty about the woman in the painting, who
Casey knew to be Jeanne Hebuterne, Modigliani’s lover and muse.
Though not an original, the painting was Casey’s favourite possession:
a gift from her grandparents on her twenty-first birthday.

Her grandfather often said that she reminded him of a Modigliani
painting. Casey smiled at the recollection, then absently clutched
at the back of her head, feeling the short, sharp bristles of her dark
hair. It had once been as long and as beautiful as Modigliani’s muse.
It seemed like a lifetime ago.

Touching a hand to the glass that protected the print inside,
Casey went to the fridge in the kitchen and plucked out a bottle of
wine. A long-stemmed glass was already waiting for her on the adjacent
countertop and she poured a generous lug of the sauvignon
blanc into it.

Time to celebrate, she thought wryly.
Walking past the workstation, bottle and glass in hand, Casey
looked over to the entertainment centre, locking her eyes onto a
familiar looking object there: a voice activated R2-D2 toy from the
Star Wars saga. It was one of Casey’s little indulgences.

“Hey, R2,” she commanded.

The little droid’s flashing red and blue light winked to life and its
domed head swivelled in the direction of her voice.
“Play music.”

A door on the barrel chest of the droid flipped opened and an
extendible arm appeared from inside.

This was not an accessory that came “out of the box” when Casey
purchased it. Rather, its presence was a result of some considerable
tweaking and customising by Casey herself.

The little droid rolled over to the front of the entertainment centre
and aimed its arm at the infrared pick-up of the sound system.
In an instant, the frenetic rock music of the Foo Fighters filled the
room. Casey allowed herself a satisfied smile.

Setting her glass on the edge of the work bench, she peeled her
gym top off and tossed it at her treadmill in the corner of the room
where it landed on one of the handles of the machine. The cool air of
the apartment caressed her skin, causing her nipples to stand erect
and she shivered, invigorated by the sensation. Reaching up, she
massaged a knot of tension from her left shoulder. An intricate tat-
too of a Japanese cherry blossom adorned her left shoulder blade, its
pink flowers catching the light from the street.

For a moment, Casey considered remaining topless, but she
opted instead to take a linen shirt that was hanging on the corner of
her wardrobe. She quickly threw it on.

Collecting her glass and the bottle and opening the glass sliding
door, Casey stepped out onto the balcony of her apartment. Immediately
she felt the balmy summer evening air on her skin and she
sighed.

She set the wine bottle on a table and sipped from her glass as
she surveyed the bustling scene below her from the balcony railing.
This was the Esplanade, the main thoroughfare of the beachside
suburb of St. Kilda. The street was thick with Saturday night traffic,
both pedestrian and automotive, as people made their way to and
from the myriad eateries and entertainment venues that lined the
strip. To the north, Casey could see the lights from the iconic Luna
Park fun fair, as well as the equally famous Palais Theatre, where
large groups of people were milling about its entrance, waiting to
be admitted to whatever gig was playing tonight. Further on, she
could just see the famous Espy Hotel, another St. Kilda landmark
that routinely drew large crowds most nights of the week.

The sight of so many people below caused Casey to shiver. She
could feel an unpleasant knot of tension in the pit of her stomach.
She hated crowds as much as she hated being outdoors. The
very thought of being trapped down there in the throng of Saturday
night revellers filled her with dread.

Taking a larger gulp from her glass, Casey pulled her eyes from
below and cast them out across the inky waters of Port Phillip Bay.
A collection of flickering lights emanating from various ships and
boats captured her focus, taking it away from the chaotic throng
below. Her anxiety abated. Her breathing relaxed, the heartbeat
slowed.

The heart, she thought darkly as she retreated from the balcony
edge and sat down on a lounge chair.

Balancing her glass on her knee, Casey closed her eyes and closed
out the sounds of the street until there was nothing but the sound
of the beating heart inside her chest. Its thump was vital and strong.
Casey reclined on the chair, lifting her feet and laying her head
back on the cushion. She placed her glass on the table beside her
and reached towards the buttons of her shirt, undoing a couple of
them, allowing the balmy summer breeze to caress her chest, her
almost perfect skin. A single blemish resided there, dark red in the
half-light. A thick, raised scar that ran down her sternum, perfectly
centred on her chest.

She hated that scar more than anything.

Though it was from a life-giving surgeon’s cut made in order to
deliver the heart she now carried, it served as a permanent physical
reminder of the journey she had taken from the edge of death, an
abyss from which she thought she would never escape.

She was alive.

Whoop-dee-fucking-doo.

She was alive but she was imprisoned by the realities of a life
post-transplant. The ongoing medical support and treatment and
medications were an omnipresent, oppressive fixture in her daily
existence. The regular visits to her doctors, the constant tweaking
of her medications, the continual tests to ensure that her new heart
remained functional and optimal. The medical team had inserted
themselves into every aspect of her life, observing how she ate, how
she drank, how she slept, how she worked. They were constantly
advising her and counselling her.

She hated it.

Casey felt like some bizarre human experiment, destined for an
eternity of analysis and scrutiny.
But there were also the other unanticipated things that no one,
least of all she, could have predicted. Her insomnia was foremost.
There were frequent periods where Casey could be trapped awake
for days at a time, unable to calm her mind. It was a phenomenon
that only existed since the surgery and it had not abated.
In order to function, Casey developed inventive strategies.
Work was one method. By taking on the most complex jobs she
could find, jobs that would occupy as much time as possible, she
would render sleep a luxury. So long as she was working, constructing,
testing and problem-solving she could avoid dealing with the
negatives of her insomnia. Medications helped too—and not the
type that were sanctioned by her medical team. Casey had done
enough research on the myriad of available stimulants and depressants
to know what she could take safely, and in what combinations,
if there was such a thing.

Despite this, Casey knew there was a limit to staving off sleep.
Her body eventually called time-out and she had to succumb.
Then she dreamed. It was the thing she hated most of all.
With the completion of the contract and no new work on the
horizon, she had run out of excuses to avoid sleep.
She drew the glass up to her lips again and sipped. Alcohol
would numb her, but only partially.

Looking down, Casey spied a small wooden box on the table.
Setting her glass down, she reached for it and balanced it on her
knees as she opened it. Inside was a small metallic pipe and a Zippo
lighter, both of which were surrounded by balled-up wads of green.
She plucked up the pipe and pressed one of those wads into the conical
spout, then lit the marijuana, taking a long drag. As the effects
of the drug worked almost immediately, she reclined and smiled.
Her muscles relaxed, the tornado of her thoughts dissipated.
If her physician knew what she was doing right now, he would
have a shit-fit.

His drug-addled heart transplant recipient.

Fuck him and his rules, she thought acidly. This is what changing
my life gets you.

Her life had indeed changed. It had shifted tectonically. No longer
was Casey Schillinge the wide-eyed, optimistic young woman.
The goody-two-shoes suburban daughter. The high achieving,
straight-A university student.

The heart had changed everything. It had taken as much away
from her as it had given her.

For now, the wine would anaesthetise her, but the weed would
knock out her subconscious and give her what she so desperately
craved: long, dreamless sleep.

DFA.

The Recipient by Dean Mayes is out May 1st 2016 from Central Avenue Publishing.