Jumping off a bridge was supposed to kill Blair. Unfortunately, the grim reaper won't take him.
Now, he's trapped on an island in the river
Suicides can't cross. They can't leave. When their comatose bodies die, they don't go to the afterlife. They wind up in the
So when a lost soul named Yuki tells him she knows a way for him to wake up, Blair seizes the opportunity. But there's a catch. Yuki wants him to take her with him--and she's been dead for more than fifteen years. Springing a lost soul from the
If he succeeds, he'll give her the greatest prize of all: her life. If he loses, he'll forfeit the only thing he hasn't lost already: his soul.
ISLE IN THE SEA OF GHOSTS is a YA contemporary/supernatural story that will appeal to readers of Libba Bray's GOING BOVINE or Michael Thomas Ford's SUICIDE NOTES. It is complete at 68,000 words.
Thank you for your time and consideration.
ISLE IN THE
Sixteen hours earlier, he was about as far from death as he had ever been, having a fairly normal day at his fairly normal job, which was a part-time gig at an ice cream shop. A pack of giggly tween girls held up the line of customers, requesting their sixth flavor sample. Blair took a wooden taster spoon and scooped up a bite-sized portion of rocky road.
"Utinam coniurati te foro interficiant.*" He handed the spoon to the blonde leader.
Above the register hung a framed sign: Clamo, clamatis, omnes clamamus pro glace lactis. It translated to "I scream, you scream, we all scream for ice cream." The ice cream shop's owner had gotten it on eBay, and Blair had initially griped about having to explain its meaning to each and every customer--until it had given him the idea to use more colorful Latin phrases while serving frozen desserts. He was taking a Latin class in his junior year of high school, so he considered it a good faith effort to practice.
"What did you just say?" asked the blonde.
"Enjoy your ice cream," he replied sweetly.
She popped the taster spoon into her mouth and then handed it back to him. It stuck to his plastic glove in a salivatory mixture of caramel and marshmallow. Frowning, he tossed it out and his plastic glove with it. All right, girls. We have a miniature cute plastic trash can for that. You've killed a small sapling, and I've got a line.
*May conspirators assassinate you at the mall.