Sunday, May 25, 2014

Title: My Soul Immortal
Author: Jen Printy

An endless love, for an endless price. 

 Jack’s immortality is exposed when he prevents a liquor store heist, forcing him to flee to protect his secret—a secret not even he understands. But when he meets Leah Winters—a mirror image of his decades-lost love, Lydia—his very soul is laid bare. He begins to question his sanity. Is she real, and if so, what does that mean for Jack and his secret? 

 Jack’s not the only mystery man in town. A stranger named Artagan hints at knowledge Jack is desperate to possess. But can he trust Artagan, or does the dark newcomer harbor deadly secrets of his own? 

 As Jack’s bond with Leah grows, so does the danger to her life. Jack must discover just how much he is willing to risk in order to save the woman he already lost once.


 I stare at the dull-black barrel of the 9mm pointed at my chest. My gaze shifts to my assailant’s face. His eyes narrow, and his mouth thins for an instant before curving into a smirk. 

 My grip tightens on the cardboard handle, causing the beer bottles to clink together. There’s no way this idiot is going to cost me my Prize Old Ale. It’s the store’s last six-pack, and who knows when I’ll get more? To the ordinary Joe, this might seem like a foolish thing to be concerned about, especially at a time like this. 

 But it’s the good stuff, a taste of England, and the only enjoyment I have left. 

 I raise my free hand and keep my voice soft, as though coaxing a feral animal. 

 “Let’s calm down. You don’t want to do something you’ll regret.” 

 The man’s glare slides to the name embroidered above the left pocket of my navy-blue shirt, and he curses. “Jack, huh? Figures. Now you listen to me. I’m in charge here, kid. Remember that!” The weapon jerks to the rhythm of his words, and his eyes, although wild, are committed to finishing what he started. I recognize that look. This man cannot be reasoned with. 
 Usually, I’m the only customer in here at this godforsaken hour of the night. But tonight, Mae, the elderly lady who lives in the apartment above Irene’s Liquor, must have decided she required self-medication to soothe her nightmares again—a plight I sympathize with. I’ve carried her groceries upstairs enough times to know her fondness for Jameson and her propensity for using the spirits as a sleeping aid. 
 Unfortunately, she came into the store at the same time the man pulled his gun. Luckily for her, he didn’t shoot, but her thready, asthmatic gasp must’ve made him think she was about to scream for help. He smacked her across her temple as easily as flicking a light switch. And I, of course, unable to mind my own business, stepped in to defend her. 

 A low moan rises from Mae, now sprawled on the dirty linoleum floor, and drags my attention from the man. Her faded pink and yellow housecoat is spattered with drying blood. Crimson trickles from the gash on her temple. Her eyes are closed, but her chest rises and falls at a steady pace. Still breathing. But for how long? Anger builds deep in my chest, and on cue, the sensation of icy pins and needles shoots down my spine. I drag in a deep, ragged breath. 
 When my scowl meets his stare, the man squares his shoulders, his nostrils flare, and the gun wobbles. I brace myself in anticipation of the pain. Despite having never been shot before, I’m pretty sure this is going to sting like hell. I find myself wondering if a bullet speeding through my chest might grab his attention, and even though I shouldn’t allow it to, a sense of hope sprouts. 
 I gesture at the elderly clerk cowering by the register, and he hunches out of sight. The gunman swings his weapon toward the counter. “Old man, are you deaf or stupid? Stand up!” 
 With his attention diverted, I set my beer out of harm’s way on a shelf behind me. I take advantage of the would-be thief’s distraction and lunge. 
 The gun swings back. A shot rings out. Another follows. 

 Each impact knocks every wisp of air from my lungs. I stumble, clutching my abdomen, and struggle for a single breath. The pain feels like two red-hot pokers— blunt ones, at that—being shoved through my insides. The bullets speed through flesh and organs. Spasms quake throughout my body and slam me backward into the shelving. The shelf teeters then collapses, taking me with down with it. Glass shatters, and the beer’s sweet aroma rises from the shards.

Since childhood, Jen Printy has been writing. Whether stories about a fantasy world or everyday life in Maine, Jen loved losing herself in the worlds she created on paper. The arts in all forms have always been an important part of Jen’s life, a love instilled in her by her father. When Jen isn’t writing, she’s sculpting as a freelance doll artist. 

 Jen lives with her husband, two daughters, and diva dog Cookie in southern Maine, where she loves spending time friends and family, finding treasures along the seashore, or enjoying a Guinness at her favorite local pub.

by Whitney Martin 2:00 AM 2 comments


  1. Thank you for spotlighting my novel, Whitney. I truly appreciate it!
    Jen :)


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