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The Seas of Distant Stars – Book Tour

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Literary Science-Fiction
Date Published:  August 7th, 2018
Publisher: Owl House Books
 
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Agapanthus was kidnapped when she was only two years old, but she doesn’t remember it. In fact, she doesn’t remember her home planet at all. All she knows is Deeyae, the land of two suns; the land of great, red waters. Her foster-family cares for her, and at first that’s enough. But, as she grows older, Agapanthus is bothered by the differences between them. As an Exchanger, she’s frail and tall, not short and strong. And, even though she was raised Deeyan, she certainly isn’t treated like one. One day, an Exchanger boy completes the Deeyan rite-of-passage, and Agapanthus is inspired to try the same. But, when she teams up with him, her quest to become Deeyan transforms into her quest to find the truth―of who she is, and of which star she belongs to.

Excerpt

They walked home; through the buzzing silence, through the steady, sweet-warm glow of the inescapable sky, lit aloft by the home sun and the quiet meanderings of the God stars, which now Agapanthus hated—hated, hated, hated, with all her gut and her clenched jaw and all the strength she could pour into the limbs of her weak, young body.

Could the Gods sense this? Could they see or hear inside her mind—inside anyone’s mind—just as they could with the Contact? Was the Contact only special because he could sense their presence there, while all the others remained blind? She hated them. Suddenly she understood how the Others must feel. They were the ones living on the fringes of the frozen lands to the south and the great deserts to the north. Right on the very edge, next to the Waters. During the Awakening, the Gods had only spoken to Contacts living around the equator. The islanders. The Others were not the chosen people. They were primitive; they didn’t have access to the technology of the Gods. No; they still worshipped the old god, the single, fierce god of the underbelly of Deeyae, who they believed controlled the hydrothermal vents, and, thus, all life. But those who worshipped the Gods knew this was not true. They knew that They controlled everything from their high perch on Aamsh and Jord. Without them, the Deeyans would not exist, and all of Deeyae would crumble.

Agapanthus didn’t know whether the Others believed in the Gods. But how could they not? Their touch was everywhere—in the science labs, in the healing centers, in the portation center, in the exchange program headquarters, in the electricity, in every advanced device, every planet-transport machine, every light. But maybe the Others didn’t know about this evidence. Either way, she knew they must hate the idea of the Gods. The idea that the islanders were better than them. Superior, chosen, brilliant. Agapanthus had only seen the Others once, on the way to the Star Festival in the ice lands. They had passed their camp—animal-skin tents, round and low to the ground, and a small gathering area of stones where they probably sat and spoke of their underworld god. But the only Other in view was a young woman. All Agapanthus saw was the back of her head, right outside one of the tents. And then, she remembered, Great-Aunt Tayzaya said something, like, “Poor things.” And they had all gone on, farther and farther from the eternal sun of the equator, into the dark half of the planet. It was always night there; always. They wore special fur suits that covered every speck of skin and body except their eyes. Onward they had walked, over the strange, ticking, cracking ice that smelled of water and soil at once. It was so tiring that Pittick had to carry her in his arms. She fell asleep pressed against his chest. His warmth. When she opened her eyes they had arrived. And that was when she looked up; above them, the sky had melted from red to—to everything. A black sculpture painted with stars, with lights that bulged, and soared, and cascaded; that reflected on the unending ice fields until ground and sky became one, rolling the world into a sphere of light.

“Aga,” Leera had said, crouching to Agapanthus’s level. Her words were muffled through the furs. “There is your home world.” She pointed to a certain light, faintly yellow, unblinking.

It was disappointing. It looked like nothing. Like anything. Like any other star.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” Leera said. “That is your home sun.”

“It looks just like the other ones.”

“Exactly. And they are all beautiful.”

 

About the Author

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Francesca G. Varela was raised in Oregon’s Willamette Valley. In 2015 she graduated from the University of Oregon with degrees in Environmental Studies and Creative Writing, and she then went on to receive her master’s degree in Environmental Humanities from the University of Utah.
Francesca’s dream of becoming an author began in third grade, and her writing career had an early start; she wrote her award-winning first novel, Call of the Sun Child, when she was only 18 years old, and she wrote her second novel, Listen, when she was only 20.
When not writing or reading, Francesca enjoys playing piano, figure skating, hiking, identifying wild birds, plants, and constellations, and travelling to warm, sunny places whenever she can.
Contact Links
Purchase Links
 
RABT Book Tours & PR
Literary Science-Fiction Date Published:  August 7th, 2018 Publisher: Owl House Books   Agapanthus was kidnapped
The Gentle Surf Series, Book 3 Contemporary Romance Date Published:  February 13, 2019 Publisher: The
The Gentle Surf Series, Book 3 Contemporary Romance Date Published:  February 13, 2019 Publisher: The
Above and Beyond by Ashe Barker. Now Available Buy Link -- https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07MG8D2PX/ Teaser: “You know,

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The Seas of Distant Stars – Blitz

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 photo Sea of distant stars cover final_zpsos9mztkc.jpg

Literary Science-Fiction
Date Published:  August 7th, 2018
Publisher: Owl House Books
 
 photo add-to-goodreads-button_zpsc7b3c634.png
Agapanthus was kidnapped when she was only two years old, but she doesn’t remember it. In fact, she doesn’t remember her home planet at all. All she knows is Deeyae, the land of two suns; the land of great, red waters. Her foster-family cares for her, and at first that’s enough. But, as she grows older, Agapanthus is bothered by the differences between them. As an Exchanger, she’s frail and tall, not short and strong. And, even though she was raised Deeyan, she certainly isn’t treated like one. One day, an Exchanger boy completes the Deeyan rite-of-passage, and Agapanthus is inspired to try the same. But, when she teams up with him, her quest to become Deeyan transforms into her quest to find the truth―of who she is, and of which star she belongs to.
Excerpt
 Her name back then was not Agapanthus. It was Aria. Aria like the song the wind made through cottonwood trees. They reminded Aria’s mother of feathers, and she often watched the cotton tufts as they floated through the dusk air. She loved when they melted into the flowing, pebble-braided creek, high with water after a storm, or even as they joined the summer trickle when the creek lay stagnant. On summer nights the water shone thick with flies, with dark red clay and the sticky tips of fallen leaves that caked together at the bottom. The freeway hissed in the distance, cars and blackness glimmering just beyond the blackberry bushes.
  Aria’s mother pretended the freeway didn’t exist. She often sat alone, or with Aria scrunched between her thighs, while the trees creaked, and the air stunk of pollen. When the cold air spread bumps over their skin she raised her daughter to her feet and draped Aria’s long blonde hair over her shoulder so she could wipe the dust from her pants.
  They held hands as they emerged from the ravine. There was the sky again, pale and waning. There sliced the blurred traffic, blazing as always in front of their one-story house. There glowed the fields, the sheep far beyond, the hills broken by dirt patches that always shone reddest at sunset. But sunset was past, so Aria’s mother nestled her daughter inside.
  Her husband’s stomach propelled, jiggling, upward and downward with his sleeping breaths. His hands clenched the armrests of the yellow recliner, the remote wedged between his side and the seat. Aria’s mother patted Aria toward the kitchen and kissed her husband’s forehead. He smelled like cinnamon and orange peels, soft remnants of the tea he had finished after dinner.
  Aria’s father woke up slowly. He scooped his wife into his lap. She murmured something about Aria’s bath, and then she burrowed her head into the warmth of his shoulder. They breathed together. The screen door slid open, but neither of them heard it. They didn’t hear Aria’s lithe footsteps against the wooden stairs. They didn’t hear her slide down, crawling on her knees into the grass, unsure of how to balance on the changing surface. She couldn’t speak yet, so she didn’t know what the trees were called, but she knew she wanted to stay with them for a little longer.
  The grass massaged her bare feet and made them itch. Aria looked up at the clouds. The moon was there, too; strangely thin, strangely weak. It wasn’t dark enough for the moon. A bright star shined over the hill already. It grew brighter. Brighter. Then there was darkness. Claws on her shoulders. Flashes of light so hot she cried out as they teared at her, pulled her up, gripping her shoulders until she felt they would pop from their sockets. And then smooth black stone. And then—nothing. back then was not Agapanthus. It was Aria. Aria like the song the wind made through cottonwood trees. They reminded Aria’s mother of feathers, and she often watched the cotton tufts as they floated through the dusk air. She loved when they melted into the flowing, pebble-braided creek, high with water after a storm, or even as they joined the summer trickle when the creek lay stagnant. On summer nights the water shone thick with flies, with dark red clay and the sticky tips of fallen leaves that caked together at the bottom. The freeway hissed in the distance, cars and blackness glimmering just beyond the blackberry bushes.
  Aria’s mother pretended the freeway didn’t exist. She often sat alone, or with Aria scrunched between her thighs, while the trees creaked, and the air stunk of pollen. When the cold air spread bumps over their skin she raised her daughter to her feet and draped Aria’s long blonde hair over her shoulder so she could wipe the dust from her pants.
  They held hands as they emerged from the ravine. There was the sky again, pale and waning. There sliced the blurred traffic, blazing as always in front of their one-story house. There glowed the fields, the sheep far beyond, the hills broken by dirt patches that always shone reddest at sunset. But sunset was past, so Aria’s mother nestled her daughter inside.
  Her husband’s stomach propelled, jiggling, upward and downward with his sleeping breaths. His hands clenched the armrests of the yellow recliner, the remote wedged between his side and the seat. Aria’s mother patted Aria toward the kitchen and kissed her husband’s forehead. He smelled like cinnamon and orange peels, soft remnants of the tea he had finished after dinner.
  Aria’s father woke up slowly. He scooped his wife into his lap. She murmured something about Aria’s bath, and then she burrowed her head into the warmth of his shoulder. They breathed together. The screen door slid open, but neither of them heard it. They didn’t hear Aria’s lithe footsteps against the wooden stairs. They didn’t hear her slide down, crawling on her knees into the grass, unsure of how to balance on the changing surface. She couldn’t speak yet, so she didn’t know what the trees were called, but she knew she wanted to stay with them for a little longer.
  The grass massaged her bare feet and made them itch. Aria looked up at the clouds. The moon was there, too; strangely thin, strangely weak. It wasn’t dark enough for the moon. A bright star shined over the hill already. It grew brighter. Brighter. Then there was darkness. Claws on her shoulders. Flashes of light so hot she cried out as they teared at her, pulled her up, gripping her shoulders until she felt they would pop from their sockets. And then smooth black stone. And then—nothing.
About the Author

 photo Author Pic_zpssqt6ha40.jpg

Francesca G. Varela was raised in Oregon’s Willamette Valley. In 2015 she graduated from the University of Oregon with degrees in Environmental Studies and Creative Writing, and she then went on to receive her master’s degree in Environmental Humanities from the University of Utah.
Francesca’s dream of becoming an author began in third grade, and her writing career had an early start; she wrote her award-winning first novel, Call of the Sun Child, when she was only 18 years old, and she wrote her second novel, Listen, when she was only 20.
When not writing or reading, Francesca enjoys playing piano, figure skating, hiking, identifying wild birds, plants, and constellations, and travelling to warm, sunny places whenever she can.
Contact Links
Purchase Links
 
RABT Book Tours & PR
Literary Science-Fiction Date Published:  August 7th, 2018 Publisher: Owl House Books   Agapanthus was kidnapped
The Gentle Surf Series, Book 3 Contemporary Romance Date Published:  February 13, 2019 Publisher: The
The Gentle Surf Series, Book 3 Contemporary Romance Date Published:  February 13, 2019 Publisher: The
Above and Beyond by Ashe Barker. Now Available Buy Link -- https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07MG8D2PX/ Teaser: “You know,

2 Comments

Filed under BOOKS