Introducing…
The
Gathering
The Uprising Series tells the story of three freedom fighters
and their friends in high — and low — places that come together to overthrow a
vainglorious Emperor and his militaristic Cabal to restore the city, and the
way of life, they once knew and loved.
In The Gathering, Jamie Ryan has defected from the Cabal and
has joined his former brothers-in-arms — Basile Perrinault and Kanoa Shinomura
— to form a collective known as The Uprising.
When an explosion leads to him crossing paths with Evanora
Cunningham — a product of Jamie’s past — he discovers that The Uprising is
bigger, and more important, than he thought.
Giveaway – Win a
paperback copy of The Gathering (Open Internationally)
*Terms and
Conditions –Worldwide
entries welcome. Winner will be asked if they prefer a paperback or a digital
copy. Please enter using the Rafflecopter box below. The winner
will be selected at random via Rafflecopter from all valid entries and will be
notified by Twitter and/or email. If no response is received within 7 days then
I reserve the right to select an alternative winner. Open to all entrants aged
18 or over. Any personal data given as part of the competition entry is
used for this purpose only and will not be shared with third parties, with the
exception of the winners’ information. This will passed to the giveaway
organiser and used only for fulfilment of the prize, after which time I will
delete the data. I am not responsible for despatch or delivery of
the prize.
OR if you don’t like html or are on WordPress
http://www.rafflecopter.com/rafl/display/33c69494118/?
About the author of The Gathering:
With an impressive list of credentials earned over the course of two decades, Bernadette R. Giacomazzo is a multi-hyphenate in the truest sense of the word: an editor, writer, photographer, publicist, and digital marketing specialist who has demonstrated an uncanny ability to thrive in each industry with equal aplomb. Her work has been featured in Teen Vogue, People, Us Weekly, The Los Angeles Times, The New York Post, and many, many more. She served as the news editor of Go! NYC Magazine for nearly a decade, the executive editor of LatinTRENDS Magazine for five years, the eye candy editor of XXL Magazine for two years, and the editor-at-large at iOne/Zona de Sabor for two years. As a publicist, she has worked with the likes of Curtis “50 Cent” Jackson and his G-Unit record label, rapper Kool G. Rap, and various photographers, artists, and models. As a digital marketing specialist, Bernadette is Google Adwords certified, has an advanced knowledge of SEO, PPC, link-building, and other digital marketing techniques, and has worked for a variety of clients in the legal, medical, and real estate industries.
Based in New York City, Bernadette is the co-author of Swimming with Sharks: A Real World, How-To Guide to Success (and Failure) in the Business of Music (for the 21st Century), and the author of the forthcoming dystopian fiction series, The Uprising. She also contributed a story to the upcoming Beyonce Knowles tribute anthology, The King Bey Bible, which will be available in bookstores nationwide in the summer of 2018.
FREE peek at Chapter ONE
Chapter One
Evanora
I
could hear him bloviating, again, from the balcony.
It is entirely too early for this, you
cocksucker, I thought, but I did not say as I jammed the pillow over my
head and tried, desperately, to sleep.
Of
course, it was no use. It never was when this asshole started screaming at the
top of his lungs at an ungodly hour of the morning. Every morning. For the past
twenty some-odd years. Saying the same thing, at the same time, every day,
without changing a single goddamn word.
I
know it by heart, by now. I can say it
in my sleep. And sometimes, I do.
So, I did what I
normally do in these situations: I pulled out my iPod, flicked the wheel, and
stuffed the earbuds into my ears as I listened to Faust’s greatest hits.
Now
this is the kind of caterwauling that
I can get behind – the sacred, now-forbidden ritual of rock’n’roll.
I
always thought Ivan Sapphire – real name, Jamie Ryan – was just so damn cute, though God only knows what
he looked like now. If history teaches us anything, it’s that time isn’t kind
to rock stars, especially if they regularly blast their body with drinking,
drugs, and strange bodily fluids.
It’d
be a damn shame if that’s what happened to Jamie Ryan.
But
there was one Faust member I wanted to know more about, but never could – and
never would.
Him.
My
father.
Jordan
Barker.
Too well, as it
turns out, and I was the product of this unlawful carnal knowledge.
Rose Cunningham
never talked about my father.
All
I knew of him was what I saw in the rare pictures I could find.
He
was tall. He was thin. He had strawberry blonde hair. He could play bass like
no one before or since. He had a pixie
nose and almond shaped eyes – both of which I inherited. He loved my mother and
me with the intensity of a thousand burning suns. He bore a pain inside him
that could only be numbed with a regular shot of pure heroin to his veins. He
died when I was still a baby.
And
that was the sum totality of all I knew.
I
was born Evanora Joy Diaz-Barker, and nicknamed the “First Faust Baby.” My
birth heralded much comment amongst the rock glitterati in the old New York – I was the latest, greatest
attraction to join the Faust three-ring circus (come one, come all, in more ways than one!), born to 21-year-old
Jordan Barker, psycho bassist from Mars, and his consort of sorts, the
19-year-old Puerto-Rican-from-the-Bronx Ramira “Rosie” Diaz, a hip-hop B-girl
and sometime dancer/choreographer who only happened upon a Faust show because
her best friend, Angelique Denham, was the dearly beloved of one Ivan
Sapphire/Jamie Ryan.
Ramira
loved to dance, and she did it well.
I
never saw Rose dance. Not even once.
My
name, of course, is just as unique as Faust’s music, but it had a sense of
history, as well.
I was named for
the two most important women in my parents’ lives: Eva, for Rosie’s mother, and
Nora, for Jordan’s.
And
my middle name – Joy – was, according to my mother, in honor of all the joy I
brought into their lives, and all the smiles I put on their faces.
I
don’t remember Rose smiling. Not even once.
I
never doubted for a minute that my mother loved me.
Her
love for me is what not only keeps me alive today, but keeps me dressed in the
finest clothes, attending the finest schools, and eating the finest food.
In
this New York – the new New York – the New York that exists under the tutelage
of my demagogue step-father, the man known to the city and to the world as,
simply, Emperor, but whom, legally, has the decidedly less-intimidating name of
Roger Cunningham, though no one dared to call him that if they wanted to live
to see another day – this is the most anyone could ask for.
It’s
a form of protection, really.
But
for this protection, my mother paid a heavy price.
She was forced to
become something she never was – and never would be.
Because Emperor,
God forbid, could never – would never – be caught dead with a
Puerto-Rican-from-the-Bronx.
Emperor, God
forbid, could never – would never – be caught dead with a single mom of a
daughter whose father died of a heroin overdose – an overdose he had while he
was supposed to be watching me.
He waited until I
fell asleep after my feeding – and as I slept peacefully, he filled his needle
with four times the lethal dose of the finest China white, plunged it as deep
into his veins as it would go, and slept peacefully beside me.
Forever.
My mother found
us both an hour later.
My mother and I
were those kind of people – those kind of people being the nod, the
wink, and the dog whistle code word for the “trash” that gave the old New York
its unique flavor and charm, but who were second class citizens in the new New
York, subjected to psi if they dared
to do anything less than toe the line drawn in the sand by Emperor…a line that
seems to keep moving further and further back with each perceived infraction.
So, if Ramira
wanted to save the life of her daughter, she would have to give up her own.
Oh, she would
still be alive – she would be breathing, eating, sleeping. She would be
performing all voluntary and involuntary biological functions. Her daughter
needed a mother – Emperor needed a wife to at least have the appearance of
propriety (“humanizing the dictator,” wrote one journalist who was
“mysteriously” found dead not long after he wrote those words) – and Ramira was
no good to anyone if she was dead.
Ramira would be
alive. She just wouldn’t be living.
So, anything that
suggested that she was a Puerto-Rican-from-the-Bronx – one of those kind of people – the fullness of
her hips and lips, the curl of her chocolate brown hair, her natural
effervescence, a smile that would light up a room, the confident and sexy way
she would sway her hips with each step, almost as though she danced her way
through life – everything my father loved about her – everything he lusted for
in a woman – were obliterated.
Her hair was
chemically straightened and dyed a garish white-blonde. I don’t know who told
Emperor that this color was a good idea. Because it wasn’t. It still isn’t. She
looks fucking ridiculous.
The hair on her
face was burned off, unceremoniously, with pulses of light that caused her to
flinch and cry with each application. Her olive skin still bears traces of
these scars to this day. Of course, she covers it up with the finest makeup –
nothing less for Emperor’s wife – but when she takes it off, the marks are
still there, as permanent reminders of all she was, and all she was forced to
give up so I could stay alive.
Her lips and hips
were suctioned, tightened and pulled, and her diet was restricted to the barest
of nutrients needed to survive.
Her smile slowly,
but surely, disappeared, and would only flash when it was required she be the
“good wife” of the “good dictator,” greeting heads of state and other
luminaries the way a well-crafted robot would be designed to do. Diva ex machina.
She was sent to
what was colloquially called a “finishing school” to complete the
transformation. God only knows what they did to her in there, because when she
came out, her gait was stilted, her speech was deliberate, and her eyes – once
simmering with life – were catatonic, zombified orbs.
And so, it came
to pass that when my father died, all traces of him were obliterated, including
any memories he may have imprinted on the two women he loved the most in this
world.
Ramira Diaz and
her daughter, Evanora Joy Diaz-Barker, became Rose and Evanora Joy Cunningham.
My mother
insisted that I keep my name. That’s part
of the deal, she said, or you may as
well kill us both, and fuck what you stand for and what you want to be.
My mother was
forged from the fire. Now, she was forced to burn in Hell.
No comments:
Post a Comment