Friday, 1 May 2015

Available Now: Soul Cypher by Poppet


ISBN: 9781310894411
Length: Novel
Genre: Fantasy Romance
Price: $3.99

Buy Here: Tirgearr Publishing

The hilarious ravings of Taniya Sexton, god of planet fruitcake, and undercover intergalactic superagent.

Taniya Sexton is an ordinary, downtrodden girl, with authority issues. Having the working day from hades, she is sucked from our reality and into the fifth dimension when summoned to wage a war. Instantly she's elevated to god status and is worshipped as the almighty god Amrak.

Playing 'god' by ear is challenging enough, but without warning she's dumped into the region of her nemesis, the god Adnachiel. Faced with drooling foamers and alien creatures, scrambling to distill hostility, she falls chin first for the gorgeous man, seduces and overthrows her enemy, and on returning home when her mission is over, finds herself suddenly in the employ of The Bureau of Her Majesty the Queen as a secret universal spy.

* * *

When I was a teenager I used to pray to the aliens to come and get me. I was desperate to go home because I knew I didn't belong here.
Let's get real for a second. It only took me ten years on planet Earth to figure out God is a figment borne of desperation (an SS type habit, a bit like cigarettes make you feel better even though they have no health properties to speak of), a need for humans to excuse their addiction to violence and bruising (because we're educated savages as the fact that we continue to play rugby illustrates), or at least either have him to blame for their despicable behaviour, or him to forgive them for what they've done, (as a guilty conscience is the one thing we can't abide – well that and the itch caused by genital lice).

The proof that He's nothing more than a mental construct, I'd pray to him, and bugger all would happen, (a bit like throwing coins in the fountain, or wishing on a dandelion's seeds – net result, nil). What kind of 'god' ignores the prayers of desperate kids? Hungry kids. Scared kids. You see my point.

But after seeing a compelling documentary on a reputable magazine program (they're dedicated to the facts and aren't prone to making things up to get ratings, unlike (for instance) Zane in the shoe department (who's more camp than a Winnebago), well, after that documentary I had proof of aliens, (this was before I'd ever heard of conspiracy theories and all that nonsense.)

Two sisters living in Durban, South Africa, had been continually abducted throughout their lives. Testimony stands up in court, (and church), so why do people mock this kind of testimony if it involves aliens breeding with humans and some such? As I recall that's exactly what the angels did when the 'supernatural beings' took the humans they liked because they had itchy dick syndrome for the daughters of men.

Me, I took the sisters' testimony as the salvation I was looking for. Interviewed on this program they provided the physical proof of their 'mark'. The mark of the chosen. A deeply seated scar (what looks like either a biopsy scar, or a burn scar – deeper than a brand, all significant intel), which is a perfect triangle, and both sisters were marked on their legs. The one interviewed had hers on her shin. You couldn't miss it. God leaves his mark on his chosen, doesn't he? The chosen all get his mark of approval. It's like a passport, but a supernatural one. (Like a boarding pass I suppose, yeah?)

I'm noticing a disturbing pattern emerging here. But then maybe that's because I'm cursed with an ounce of logic. (Just an ounce mind you, any more and I'd have an unfair advantage).

Chosen to go 'home', chosen to have visitation rights with the great cosmic beings (with an agenda), throughout their lives these sisters had what I craved. An escape! Chosen to be 'as one' with their alien family instead of limited to the little box of mediocrity we call life.

It was a strange anomaly for me when out of the blue I developed the same marking on my left thigh. It looks like a scar, yet it appeared overnight. Jubilant, I was expectant, hoping beyond hope that my time was nigh, someone in this universe cared about me, someone would rescue me from the banal hardships of living a lie. You know the lie, right? We all live the lie. 'Everything's fine', when truthfully nothing is, and probably won't ever be. But stiff upper lips shall prevail, the masquerade will go on, and misbehaving marionettes will have their strings cut and get stuffed into little boxes prematurely.

From that day forward I went outside at every sundown, staring at the darkening sky, using my telepathy as hard as I could, begging for those bastards to come and collect their forgotten.

I don't belong here, I knew I was one of theirs. Not an alien mind you, just chosen. This distinguishing factor is important, (I think). I knew I was human (well I cry don't I, so if I was a magical being belonging to 'them' I'd not get hurt by you. I'd know I was better, special, above your petty nastiness... but I digress).

They never came for me. After three years I put them into the God category, a myth that doesn't answer prayers (and as crumbly as sleeping with wedding cake under your pillow). If you don't exist and I have no solid proof other than a weird overnight scar in the shape of a perfect equilateral triangle (sheer coincidence), well then I'm wasting my energy. Best I learn to harness my anger because no one is coming to save me, (or I'm going to have to learn to play rugby).

I'd forgotten I was chosen, completely, until the fateful day that I became god. I kid you not, afraid you should be.

* * *

Poppet started her career writing for magazines and now specialises in edgy fiction of the paranormal and ghoulish. She writes mythology inspired fiction, leaning toward the heretical, with her preoccupation with the realms of gods and fallen angels. Poppet is published with Eibonvale Press and Wild Wolf Publishing.

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