Flicking the lighter, I brought the flame to the tip of my cigarette, watching the white paper burn. The paper darkened and flaked before falling to the gravel below. My mind was static, barely processing what my eyes followed. I tracked time by how many cigarettes I burned through, my eyes only blinking from the falling black flakes when a train raced past. I never heard the approach. The cars just suddenly appeared with the blare of a horn.
Blindly watching the sunset over the tracks, I let the night air that bite through my hoodie. When the next train sped by, stifling my cigarette, I couldn’t help my shiver. I didn’t bother digging into my pocket for my lighter again. The trains had stolen four cigarettes from me already.
Inhaling the smell of smoke and oil, I stood from the graffitied wall, ready to suck it up and get out of the cold.
Though, my gut still twisted at the thought of going home. Being confined to chipped and dented walls made my organs gnarl like they were trying to kill me before I reached my front door.
I walked across the gravel until my beat-up high tops hit pavement, the rubber scuffing along the road leading to my neighborhood. Keeping my head down, I only looked up when small, one-story homes popped up on either side of the street. Barred windows, locked doors with gates over them, leaf-covered yards—it was like the neighbors had banded together to create one massive shitfest.
My house was halfway down the street, six houses from the corner bus stop, and squished between two other trash-infested homes. I walked over uneven bricks to the front door, steeling myself as I yanked open the gate to the unlocked door behind it.
The house was stale. The air was dry the moment the world was locked outside. Smoking was forbidden, a rule Mom had made, but heavy drinking was encouraged. The TV was always on, whether someone was watching, or it was on for background noise. Usually, there were at least eight empty beer bottles on the table beside the chair claimed by my pathetic excuse for a father. Old brown leather and stained, his ass was the only one allowed to slump in the crusty throne.
Except he wasn’t sitting in it.
“Motherfuckers, where are yeh?” came a garbled voice from the back of the house. A cabinet banged shut.
Book Blurb: There are thirteen knives. One by one they begin to disappear
Nora didn't expect Hidden Lake Camp to be in a state of ruin. Dock full of rotten boards, smashed windows, cabins falling apart. To her new husband, Paul, the camp is the past he'd just as soon bury. Nora agreed to drive north with him to get his elderly parents settled while he makes enough repairs to sell the property. Only a few months, Paul said. The summer camp, however, and its deep lake have other plans.
After Nora's first meal with his difficult family, one knife-part of a prized collection-goes missing. By the time the fourth and fifth vanish from behind locked doors and out from under watchful eyes, Nora can barely sleep. There's talk of ghosts, secret rooms and someone at the summer camp found dead in the tall grass.
Unsettling, gripping, and totally original, Book of Knives is a literary thriller that shows how one person's unraveling can bring the whole house down.
Review:
A woman who still sees the ghost of her husband, a camp with an age old murder mystery, family tensions, and missing knives. Nora still grieves the loss of her husband Takeo but now she has married his best friend Paul. When Paul’s parents become ill and he is called home to get the camp ready to be sold he takes Nora with him. At the camp there is Paul’s son Leon, Paul’s brother Gabe, Gabe’s wife Silash and Gabe and Silash’s children. After a rocky dinner it becomes apparent there is tension between everyone. Silash has also brought her collection of 13 knives that she is obsessed with... but soon they begin to disappear one by one and the tension of ghosts and old murder mystery as well as complicated family secrets starts to build... and soon bodies will drop. Nora will soon discover that Paul has other motives for wanting to come to the camp and that Silash treats her with resentment for a different reason other than a rocky bad first dinner. The story felt like it dragged on and the overall ending felt lacking. You don’t really find yourself invested in the mystery or caring for the characters... and the fact that you never really get to know what happens to the disappearing knives is a let down.
*Thank you Poisoned Pen Press for sending me an arc in exchange for an honest review*
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Guest Post by the Author
“Why Do I Write?”
Why do we choose to do anything? What is it that drives us to take action? Obviously, we do the things we need to do in order to survive. We get jobs, make money, buy shelter, food and clothing to provide for ourselves and our loved ones, but what about outside of our basic needs? What happens once those needs are met? The next logical choice would be to have some fun. Life is not all about surviving, it’s also about what we do to fulfill ourselves. What brings us joy and happiness? Next to survival, this is key.
Learning new skills, traveling to new places, following a creative endeavor, meeting new people, facing new challenges and socializing with friends and family are all part of this path. For me, writing helps satisfy many of these things. I think anytime you follow your bliss, you will find a whole new world opening up to you. That’s part of the excitement. The journey you take and what you learn along the way are key as you open up to new opportunities.
I started writing in 2012 after many years of dabbling with it. I’d started and stopped many times, but never considered my work “worthy” enough and would put it in a drawer away from view. But for some reason, when I got an idea to create a storyline around an extraterrestrial community that lived on earth, it stuck. I wrote my first book in eight months, the second in five months, and the third in two. The words were pouring out of me and it was so much fun. I loved my new found community of characters and I loved writing about them. I didn’t think about editing, publishing and marketing. I just wrote. And what’s funny? I didn’t tell anyone. I wrote the entire first book and nobody knew.
Part of me liked that no one knew because it allowed me to write without having to deal with outside questions, curiosities and opinions. I could write without worrying about what anyone thought. But once the book was done, I had to face that final challenge of showing it to someone else. And that meant subjecting myself to potential criticism. The self-doubt can be crippling. I’d just written ninety thousand words I’d poured my heart and soul into. What if it was crap?
But that’s the thing about following your bliss. You have to follow wherever it leads. And that usually means sharing your gifts with the world. If I was really going to do this, then I needed to take the leap. I needed to know if I’d accomplished what I really wanted – write a good story that kept a reader engaged from cover to cover and left them wanting more.
Fast forward to now and I’m five books in with a sixth on the way, so you can guess how my initial feedback went on that first book. It was positive. Don’t get me wrong. I had to do a lot of editing and I learned a lot from that initial endeavor, and I’ve learned a lot since. I’ve also delved into the world of self-publishing, marketing and self-promotion. It’s not easy. In fact, it’s been the hardest thing I’ve ever done, but also the most rewarding because I love it. And that’s why I do it. It has nothing to do with providing for myself, because it doesn’t pay the bills (well, maybe one or two), but it satisfies the most basic need in all of us – fulfillment. It fills that creative hole and it allows me to bring delight to those readers who enjoy my work. There’s nothing better than getting the “I couldn’t put it down” review.
So that’s why I write. It fills my soul. Have you found something that fills yours? Comment below and let me know.
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About the Author
Born and raised in Dallas, TX, J. T. Bishop began writing in 2012. Inspired by a video that theorized the meaning of the end of the Mayan calendar, J. T. began the Red-Line trilogy. The video surmised that the earth was the central hub of activity for extraterrestrials thousands of years ago. J.T. didn’t know whether that was true or not, but it did spawn an idea. What if those extraterrestrials were still here? Two years and a lot of work later, the first three Red-Line books were complete, but she’s not done. The Red-Line saga develops as she continues to write new books.
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