SEVEN WAKINGS - kindle ebook by S.K. McCauley

http://www.amazon.com/SEVEN-WAKINGS-S-K-McCauley-ebook/dp/B00KCUU5P8

What people are saying about SEVEN WAKINGS:

Intriguing from the first page!
By DK on May 27, 2014
The plot keeps you turning each page and Emma James and her kids feel like friends. The premise is like nothing you've read before, but the author makes it believable. I'm hoping this turns into a series and Emma "wakes" again.

A great read!
By Jeffrey Hunsberger on May 17, 2014
S.K. McCauley does a great job bringing these characters to life. Readers will find themselves thinking about this book long after they finish reading it.

should be a movie
By carolyn gold on May 26, 2014
I stayed up late into the night reading, could not wait to see who Emma became . Such a refreshing story, reading something that has never been told before. I hope the author finds it possible to write a sequel.....
Intriguing Read
By Sue Welk on May 24, 2014
I couldn't stop reading this thriller of a book! Interesting plot twists and turns. Not for the faint of heart.

A must read!!
By Jennifer Slade on May 18, 2014
This is quite a page turner! It keeps you so you just can't put it down!! Writer has a vivid imagination and paints the story in a fascinating light that keeps you hanging on until the end! Great book!!!



Prologue:

As a kid, I knew what I wanted to be when I grew up: a shape shifter. I’d use my super powers to spy on people; watch how they lived. If a grown up was mean, I’d become a giant, remove their roof with my big, blue hands and...
“Wait, Emma, who decides who the bad guys are?” my father asked in the dim light of our small porch, arranging his hand of cards.
“Ah do,” I said, in the Southern accent I’d adopted to sound more like my mother.
Dad chuckled and moved his bench back from the picnic table.
“No… really, I can hear the difference.”  I gulped chocolate milk.
“Bad people sound different?” He laid down a run of hearts— 2, 3, 4.
“Sure. It’s like when you’re flipping channels and you hit one with nothing on.”
“Like static,” he said, matter-of-fact.
“Bad people move different too, real slow, like they’re under water.”
Dad went quiet. I wouldn’t know until later that Mother’s side of the family came with an assortment of “Gifts,” which revealed themselves in a child’s ninth year. I had turned nine that March.
“Then what happens… in your fantasy, I mean?” He picked up replacement cards.
“The bad guys get sucked out of the house and the whole neighborhood comes out to watch them float past the moon. Sometimes I’ll do a bunch of houses at once. When all the people float up, it’s like watching rain in reverse.” I laid down three kings.
He pushed his dinner plate aside. “That’s a lot of bad guys.”
“Yep. Then they get sucked into a black hole and disappear forever.”
My father, a police chief, taught me a lot of things, but astronomy was my favorite. I thought outer space was a more humane dumping ground than the hell they preached about in my mother’s church.
I used to go with her— the year she tried being Baptist— but all I liked was the pie they served in the church basement after the preacher talked me to sleep. Maybe if I’d paid more attention, Mother wouldn’t have left for good to try and “find herself.”
By the time I received my Gift, we hadn’t seen her in years. That was just fine by me (she could be all kinds of crazy), but I missed her when it came time to getting tucked in. I liked the way she used to sing me to sleep. Her voice was taffy— sweet and rich.
After my mom left, Lynette started coming over. She was one of the McCollum clan that lived next door.
To me, they were one Irish lump, too big for individual recognition. Each one of the kids’ names started with an “L”: Liam, Lochlan, Leith, Lee, and Luxovious were the five boys.  Lyonesse, Lesley, Lynette, and baby Lavena, were the girls. They all called me Mowgli— from The Jungle Book— ‘cause I dressed like a boy, had toasty-tan skin, and wore my hair moppy-brown.
I never could tell one red-haired McCollum from another, until Lynette separated from the pack. Four years older than me, she’d started getting boobs and said she didn’t like being around all those boys. Really, I think she felt bad about my mom leaving. She’d get ready at our house in the morning: put her hair in rollers, sit on the side of the tub, and ask me about my innermost thoughts.
I liked how she took an interest, made me feel special. Later, I even told her about my Gift.
Back then, our post-war house was painted brick-red with clean, white trim and sat on the outskirts of Baltimore. Grass pushed green veins of color down cracked sidewalks that passed a hundred houses, on countless blocks, with the same modest floor plan. But Dad made ours different— he put a porch on the front and planted lots of flowers. He liked to watch people walk by, play cards in the rain, and tell stories about our neighbors.
The way Dad described them: One woman ran the five-and-dime and had lost her husband to a heart attack. The man up the street was a mechanic at the gas station in town who took care of his ailing mother. Another owned a hardware store and was a devoted family man.
I liked the way Dad saw people; they were all decent and hard working in his eyes. But I knew better. The woman stole money from the till, the man took cans of gasoline to set his neighbor’s lawn on fire, and Mr. Carl— the hardware store owner— beat his kids senseless. Having “the Gift” made the bad stuff people did as clear as cells under a microscope. Most things didn’t bother me much… until it came to hurting kids.
When my mind saw how Mr. Carl treated his own, I arranged a “Come to Jesus.” Standing on his concrete stoop, I told him I would kill him if he kept it up.
Mr. Carl snorted and told me he was “real scared.” But when I described the exact details of how he whipped his kids like they were slow horses, he got real quiet. Then I started to talk like I was possessed— using Bible words and calling on Lucifer to take his “Evil spirit to the fiery gates of Hell.”
I even rolled my eyes back in my head for effect and hissed like I’d swallowed a snake. I told him he had two choices: stop beating his kids, or sleep with one eye open.
He took his fist-fighting to the bar.

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