Humbled by Writing
I
had written from the age of twelve, secretively to myself in the form of poems,
song writing, keeping a diary. I had always been that girl who wanted to be
liked, who needed approval from the world. I had changed myself to become
popular, altered my whole being to conform to the ideals of others.
I
might have been a little too good at it and in turn it cost me
my YA years.
Being
popular consumed me. I tried my hand with great success at many things, from
figure-skating, gymnastics, ballet, art, drama; TV presenting…the list goes on.
But all those things never really touched me, moved me. The passion was
lacking. So, many years later–many wrong turns later–the bad girl had to
change.
The
only thing ever keeping me solid and grounded was my writing…being by myself,
to not have my thoughts corrupted by others. (Of course I allowed it to
happen). But it wasn’t until 2009 that I felt compelled to shut the world out
and indulge in my imagination without caring what anyone thought of me. I had
always been ruled by that element. Self-consciousness. I felt that
unexplainable sense of belonging almost instantly when I embarked on my first
Novel The Broken Destiny. And in many Ava’s story reflects my own. To embrace a
destiny of greatness you have to find the greatness in yourself!
At
first it was all about getting all the emotion out there, and through writing
my first novel, I came to terms with who I was. I finally started dealing with
all my baggage I had always run away from. Writing saved me from becoming what
I hated in myself.
I
knew from the moment I thought about writing The Broken Destiny that
I’d be published, I’d make it happen. It was not to prove anything to all those
who did me wrong (okay, maybe a little). It was to be okay with me,
self-approval above all approval of the untrue world out there – to set away
all those false needs of belonging. It was like someone chimed a magic wand
over me and I became me again.
The
journey has been amazing–life changing. I have really been accepted with great
encouragement by the most amazing people. And it is because of all of those who
did me wrong , all those wrong turns, mistakes and bad decisions that I am able
to inspire and help others feel better about themselves. My insecurities melted
away the more I wrote. It is amazing to find something that is utterly and
truly satisfying. For me, my novels are my soul, my journey though the dark to
find the light. So yes, I am very nervous about people reading my work, as that
is my soul-baring experience set in a tale of difficult and trying times
created by one ’s self.
I
hope to inspire, change and motivate you to follow your dreams and stray true
to yourself. The only person that can hurt you is you. By being truly you, you
can achieve anything you so dearly desire. I had never worked for anything in
my life, one of those spoiled kids who grew up with a silver spoon in her mouth
(that is how you say it in English, isn’t it?). I have overcome my language
barrier with such ease; I have surprised myself and have grown because of it. I
have never worked so hard and so passionately for something ever before. Having
great friends along the way has helped me hang on through difficult,
frustrating times. My deepest gratitude to all who have touched my life during
this time (you know who you are – yes, you reading this!)
My
friends still find it strange that I don’t wear high heels everywhere I go. I
find myself not relying on makeup and things. Writing is my feel-good med. I am
humbled by the magic it has brought to my life. I am at peace. My first novel
is all about overcoming those insecurities, believing and loving one’s self. I
not only changed myself through writing – I hope to change all those who read
my work.
~ Don’t let fear cripple your dreams. Let love and
passion give you wings ~
Happy
writing all,
Carlyle
Labuschagne
Dead of Night
The Aftershock Series
Book One
Carlyle Labuschagne
Genre: YA Dystopian
Publisher: Fire Quill Publishing
Date of Publication: September 21, 2015
ISBN: 978-0-9946536-9-7
Number of pages: 236
Word Count: 72 000
Cover Artist: Sandra Valente
Book Description:
In a dark and desolated After Earth, love still does exist, but the cost of bearing such a flaw is death.World War III has left Earth in utter turmoil. People’s beliefs are said to be the cause of the worldwide destruction. After The Clearing new laws are set about – to show certitude in anything besides the law is weak and chargeable as mutiny. To be illogical and have faith in religion is illegal, to be limitless is dangerous. And Illness is seen as a defect – all flaws that are inexcusable.
But to love is the greatest betrayal of all man kind. It is a fault the world has long forgotten and punishable by death, a fatal risk Aecker and Opel are fully prepared to take – because in love there is freedom. But how far can they push back before it claims their lives and of those they care about?
Excerpt:
CHAPTER
ONE
HEART
ON FIRE
HIS VOICE ECHOES
THROUGHOUT THE VAST room. It’s a voice I feel I could know, one that is as
familiar to me as his handsome face. When he moves, the bunk’s springs squeak
like a little rodent that is desperate to scurry away. I don’t mean to
stare—but those soft gorgeous lips and strong jaw, the warm smile that brings
sparkle to his honey-colored eyes, carries forth a loud voice in my head,
telling me this boy can be trusted.
Lingering
beneath his gentle stare I can see something else, the embers of concern. They
drown out the spark in his stare as he waits for my answer.
Why would he
show me this consideration? I don’t know who this beautiful stranger is.
I look around, realizing that I don’t even
know who I am. Or, if the blue cotton uniform I am wearing is even mine. I
glance back down at the green tin cup I hold in my hands, and the sweet and
salty aroma of corn soup fills my nostrils.
“Are you sure
you’re okay?” His voice is calm, but the quickening thump of his pulse and the
tight set in his jaw relays something else entirely.
He inches
closer, beads of sweat darkening his dusty blond hair, giving away the secret
he is trying so hard to hide. He is upset. Nervous. Maybe both.
Is he
withholding something?
Unknowingly, my
head tilts to the side, trying to figure out what happened to me, and who this
perfect stranger might be. And why I think I might know him. The stabbing
sensation in my head throbs with each breath I take, making it hard for me to
think clearly. I feel wrapped up in a thick fog, and just beyond it lives some
useable memory.
From across the
room, I stare at dirty clothes disregarded near the burn shoot. They reek of
vomit and old blood. Staring at the clothes, I can immediately tell they belong
to a female. The material is new, stretchy, and cut for a slim, short figure.
Quickly glancing down at my body, I assume they could be mine―those clothes
most definitely hold clues as to who I really am.
My familiar
stranger sits across from me on the bunk bed, his body turned slightly toward
mine. My hand creeps up to my head wound, making me wince at the feel of the
raw, painful flesh. At my obvious discomfort, he immediately moves closer, his
breath warm and sweet as he leans in. His gentle fingers lift the hair from my
forehead as he inspects the injury. “We need to get you to a doctor.” His voice
comes out shaky, uncertainty tainting his beautiful tone.
“No.” I jerk
away. The dregs of my warm soup spill over the rim of the cup, splashing onto
my raw fingers and wrists.
He watches me
carefully as I stare forcefully into his eyes. His hand suddenly moves away and
then I feel it―pain. I pull back farther, even though I crave his touch.
“Sorry,” he
mumbles, moving one seat over, his back resting on the gray, concrete wall
beside the bunk.
“It hurts,” I
say, confused as to what hurts more, the wound or the fact that I have no idea
what is going on. “How long have I been out?” I ask him.
He shrugs. “Not
more than two days.”
I sigh at his
answer, one that comes from somewhere deep and mournful inside me. As the
feeling of loss wraps around me, it’s like a vice, squeezing tighter and
tighter until I can’t breathe anymore. I close my eyes, attempting to block out
whatever memory is making me feel so utterly terrified.
“It’s okay. He
can’t hurt you anymore.”
I shake my head.
“It’s not that.”
But, I must ask
myself, who is ‘he’? Who is this brutal attacker I do not even remember?
Standing slowly,
I place the soup cup on the wooden bench situated beside the metal-framed bed.
As he looks up at me, I feel the sudden need to run far and fast and never look
back.
“Thank you for your hospitality, but I-I must
go.” I stumble over my words.
Moving too
quickly, my head meets with the source of light above me. The light ebbs out
for a second, and I pull in a sharp breath as pain shoots through me once
again. Suddenly, I am terrified of the dark and feel myself reaching out for
him. His forearm is soft, warm, strong, and alluring all at the same time. The
fear that makes my pulse race alters slightly. I suddenly fear being trapped by
an emotion I do not understand. Ruled by a feeling that is strong and fatal. I
lose control of my thoughts.
He chuckles.
“Where are you going to go in this storm?”
The light
flickers back on. I look up as it continues to sway back and forth above us,
searching the room for something, anything, yet I’m not sure what it might be.
A feeling of anxiety washes over me. It’s so intense it spreads and enters my
chest, as if a bald eagle has flown down to take my heart on gilded wings. The
feeling to run tugs at me again. But when I look down, I notice I’m still
gripping his arm. Instinct tells me that what I’m doing is wrong, that I should
never be so close to a human.
“Sorry,” I
apologize. When I release his forearm the golden color immediately returns to
his flesh.
“It’s okay.” He
smiles, invitingly. “Quite a grip you have there.” He keeps the grin, shaking
out his hand as if I have stopped the blood from flowing through his veins.
I look away. “I
can’t stay,” I announce, staring at the glimmer of light bouncing off the
silver armlet wrapped tightly around my wrist―that shine, that glow, the entire
piece is trying to remind me of something.
As he moves, the
light brings out the blond streaks in his hair, and his shirt pulls tight
around muscular pecks as he crosses his arms over his chest. He grins
mockingly, and ever so slightly his feet shift toward me.
Nevertheless, I
am aware of every single move he makes, like the way his eyelashes touch the
top of his cheeks when he blinks, and how the corners of his eyes crease with
the revelation of his gorgeous smile. His impeccable chest moves slowly as he
breathes. His eyes hover on my face, making me shift uncomfortably. I don’t
like the way he looks at me, it’s wrong. But I don’t know why I feel this way.
All I know is that I don’t want to feel weak.
“What?” I ask sheepishly, suddenly feeling as
if my dark, blue pantsuit has become transparent. Heat rushes to my face―an
unexpected and unpleasant moment.
“You’ve been
stalking me for weeks, and that’s all you have to say? You’re not even going to
ask me my name? Or thank me for saving your life?”
It’s like an
anchor falls, dropping me back to the depths of the uneven mattress. The squeak
fades away as shock kicks me in the gut and allows me only one long, shuddering
breath.
“I-I,” I falter.
I have no recollection of my assault, or anything else that came before.
“What is it?
What’s wrong?” he whispers, his charming voice now peppered with unease. “It’s
me, you can tell me anything. You know that, right?” Sitting down, he keeps his
distance, as if making sure that I do not feel I am prey to his predator.
“I’m not sure…I
know anything.” My brows furrow, as my fingers tremble over the soft skin of my
lips. The frigid cold forms goose bumps on my skin as I stare into the thick,
dark, naked concrete walls of the bunker. I am just that. I am colorless and
empty. I have no present. And the past has vanished. I am back in that tunnel
in the dead of night, with no sense of anything other than the blackness and
the loneliness reaching out for me, attempting to make my soul crumble into
dust.
“I don’t
remember,” I finally admit, the words bitter and brief on my tongue.
I wait for a while in the silence of the
moment, hoping my inner animosity will dissolve, and that the fear will leave
me alone so I can figure things out. What thought might trigger a memory?
Gingerly, he
grabs my hand and turns it, flattening my palm against his hard chest. “Aecker.
My name is Aecker. You don’t remember me at all?”
I shake my head.
His eyes are
gentle, digging up unsettled feelings within me. But he is not really sad or
bothered by my sudden memory loss. In fact, he seems almost relieved.
I stare at his
long fingers as they wrap around my tiny wrist. The contrast between his tanned
skin and my pale hand is strikingly beautiful. But the shiny, silver bracelet
that takes up most of my forearm is what bothers me. I wish I knew what it
meant. I feel my pulse ticking beneath his fingers, sense the beating of his
heart through my palm. It’s slow and steady at first, but as time passes and as
the silence mounts, the heat of our touch grows into a black hole, sucking me
in to his endless gravity. I feel attached to him, as if my hand is melting
right into his chest. I want to grab hold of his human heart and become one
with it. I wish to wrap my hand around it and try to translate the language
that’s making it move. We are suddenly tethered to each other in ways I cannot
begin to fathom.
With my gaze
shamefully glued to his chest, his heart rate increases. Strangely, this effect
rubs off on me and I can feel the beat of my own heart increase to match his,
causing a perfect symmetry between us. In slow motion, I watch his Adam’s apple
move up and then down as he swallows nervously. My eyes affix to his luminous,
ochre gems as they grow wider―the darkness of his pupils swallowing up the
magic of his irises.
Abruptly, it all
disappears, and I am aware of another presence in the room. Jerking my hand
away, the feeling I now own is awkwardness, almost as if I have somehow been
caught trespassing.
“Aecker, what
are you doing?” a deep voice calls out.
“I can explain.”
Aecker stands, the bed springs moaning at the release of his weight.
I stare up at
yet another beautiful man, with similar eyes and square jaw. He places a device
on the center table, and then his gaze falls on me. This tall man’s eyes widen.
“What happened?”
He moves closer, lifting my hair from my face, his other hand―fingers
unbelievably icy―grips my chin, raising my face to the light.
“I couldn’t
leave her…” Aecker begins.
“Who did this to
you?” the man asks, sitting me down beside him, allowing the creaks and groans
of the mattress to once again spring to life.
“She has no
idea,” Aecker replies. It’s almost like his words filter right through me, and
I feel like I am falling into a downward spiral, face first, swirling into the
void where the forgotten stray.
It’s all sitting
wrong with me; my sudden memory loss, and the fact that this boy known as
Aecker called me a stalker. But the most disturbing, are the feelings I just
experienced between him and me. It felt sinful, but I couldn’t stop myself. So
perhaps it was just as well the stranger interrupted when he did, or who knows
what would have happened.
The tall man
stands, clears his throat and asks me my name. From the corner of my eye, I see
Aecker shaking his head.
“Do you have a
name? Or shall I just call you ‘girl’?”
“No, sir.” I
shake my head, too.
“Sir?” His head
jerks in Aecker’s direction then back to me, as a look of confusion appears in
his eyes. He takes a few steps back, like I’m infected with some horrific
disease that he will do anything to protect himself from. “Do you remember
anything at all?”
I continue to
shake my head as if I were made of nothing but wires and conduits―something
completely mechanical that is unable to think or feel, just follow orders.
“She must be a City Dweller.” His words are
said with distaste, sounding like he wants nothing more than to spit on the
floor at the mere thought of something as hideous as me infiltrating his life.
When he notices
the bracelet around my wrist, his shoulders slump dramatically. Closing his
eyes and pressing his long, dark lashes against tanned skin, he looks as if he
is trying desperately to hold back something, yet impatience appears in his
voice.
“She’s a Tracker. She must leave right now,”
he states with finality, making me feel like I have successfully drowned in
that black void where my forgotten memories live, where I will be washed away
and swallowed up, never to be seen again.
“She does not
look anything like a Tracker!” Aecker’s words are defensive.
“There are
whispers of the new generation.”
“It doesn’t
matter, Dyllian!” Aecker says passionately, moving closer and pushing the older
boy away so that he is now standing between us.
“You know it
does. You have to get rid of her. If they find her, if Cupola even catches one
scent of this intruder and your involvement with her, you will be killed and I
can’t do anything to stop it. Trackers bring nothing but death. You know that!”
Aecker moves
even closer to me, his hands come to rest on my shoulders as he stares into my
eyes. “She’s nothing like them.”
“What is a
Tracker?” My thoughts are finally voiced.
Dyllian steps
back, resting an elbow against the wall. With the other hand, he pulls out a
dirty old rag and wipes his face. “Trackers are soldiers, spies, assassins.
They are here to kill any Inborns and infiltrate their hideouts. To bring
violent death to Believers and make examples of their flaws.”
“Believers of
what?” I interrupt again.
Dyllian’s eyes
pin mine so strongly, I feel like a deer staring down an eager hunter’s arrow.
“Of anything.”
Aecker notices
my distress, and I grip my hands together so they don’t see me shaking. Fear is
a weakness.
“Like I said,”
Aecker strokes my cheek with the back of his fingers, “You are not one of
them.”
Despite his
tender eyes holding mine, trying to offer comfort, his words still burn a hole
through my chest. A deep and intense heat causes my heart to beat erratically,
because I realize that he is looking at me like I am his only possession; his
to protect until his very last breath. And this time, I don’t mind the way it
makes me feel.
As Dyllian turns
to study me, something alerts my brain that my small, dark world is about to be
buried by this revelation, and the flicker of hope I saw in Aecker’s eyes just
moments ago is about to be extinguished. I know why my heart feels as if it is
on fire; I want to be his hope, but I don’t know how I possibly can be. If I am
a Tracker, it will mean the death of something that is being born between us. I
might not know who or what I am, but I know unequivocally that I don’t want to
live without the promise of a future and a life beaming in Aecker’s eyes.
I like the way
it makes me feel.
About the Author:
Calyle is an South African award wining author, with a flair for mixing genres and adding loads of drama to every story she creates. For now she is happy to take over the world and convert non Sci-fi believers.
Her goal as an author is to touch people's lives, and help others love their differences and one another by delivering strong messages of faith, love and hope within every outrageous world she writes about.
"I love to swim, fight for the trees, and am a food lover who is driven by my passion for life. I dream that one day my stories will change the lives of countless teenagers and have them obsess over the world literacy can offer them instead of worrying about fitting in. Never sacrifice who you are, its in the dark times that the light comes to life."
Carlyle used writing as a healing tool and that is why she started her very own writers support event - SAIR bookfestival.
"To be a helping hand for those who strive to become full times writers, editors, bloggers, readers and cover artists – it’s a crazy world out there you dont have to go it alone!"
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