Devyn loves Justin.
Justin loves Erik.
Erik is Justin's boss.
Justin is a girl.
Devyn is a boy.
And Bubba is metro.
Currently on part:
13
Summary and Excerpt of Devyn's Listed Books
Ginger Kiss
Ginger Kiss is the story of a red-headed, freckled girl named Elle and how she was killed. When Elle was fourteen years old, she went on a date with a boy named Roger Kent. Roger was a kind, polite, good-looking boy of sixteen years, who had been rumored to have been in love with Elle since he was ten years old and she was eight. When Roger finally convinced Elle to go on a date with him on the day he got his drivers' license, Elle's parents agreed and Roger's were thrilled, believing that Elle was the perfect girl to keep their son on the right track through high school, as she was beautiful, kind-hearted, and the pastor's daughter. But when Elle never came home from the date, and Roger's body was found in bad condition in his totaled car on the side of a typically-empty road, the town went into a frenzy. It was obvious Roger had been killed in the accident. But where was Elle's body? And if Roger was left but Elle was gone, was it possible the accident was not an accident at all?
It was pitch black. The road was empty and eerie, and the sight of Roger's totaled pick-up on the side of the road tied Gina's stomach in a knot. She stepped closer, her flashlight in hand, though the scene was already lit up by the flashing lights of her cop car. As she stepped closer to the truck, she saw a hand sticking out of the upside-down driver's side window. She covered her mouth with one hand and stepped closer yet, shining her flashlight in the window. Gasping, she turned away quickly and tried not to hurl. Roger's mangled body was inside that truck, his eyes wide open and his face ripped apart. Swallowing, she stepped around the glass and pieces of metal, walking around to the passenger's side. Taking a long breath in, she turned on her flashlight again and shined it in. All she saw was Roger's body on the other side of the truck, and she tried again not to throw up as she stepped even closer and looked inside the small space. There was no sign of Elle. Surprised now, she pulled back and shone her flashlight around the scene, checking to see if the body had been thrown out of the car. But she didn't see the body and realized that this was not possible anyway, since the passenger part of the car was upside down in front of her and the front window was not broken enough to have had a body thrown through it. She swallowed again from the thought and looked around, now disturbed more deeply than anything else in this scene had disturbed her. Where was Elle's body?
High School
High School is a story about three teenage boys and a whole lot of family problems. Henry has an abusive father. George has a missing sister. Quin has no parents at all. This is the story of how they help one other find their true family: each other.
"She's gone," George said, staring at me. I sighed, "She can't just be gone, George. She's probably out somewhere."
"No, Quin, she's gone. She's been gone for three days now." I rose an eyebrow as George continued, "Mom and dad thought she went to Stacy's on Friday night, like usual, so they didn't suspect anything. When she didn't come home Saturday, they called her cell and left a message telling her to call them to check in and asking if she needed anything to stay another night. By Sunday, they were mad and they called Stacy's home phone, asking to speak to her. Stacy's mom told them she wasn't there. My mom asked when she had left and if they knew where she had gone, and they said she never came over." Henry looked up from his lap top, where he was working on some new project. We both stared, wide-eyed, at George, whose breathing had quickened so much I was worried he would hyperventilate. "Ok, ok, just calm down. Doesn't she have any other friends she would spend the weekend with?" George shook his head quickly, "No, she had a falling out with her other friends about a month ago and she hasn't spoken to them since."
"What about her boyfriend?" Henry asked, now looking as worried as George. Henry had always had a thing for Katie, and though I could tell he was trying to cover it, he was obviously freaking out. Heck, so was I. "They broke up two weeks ago. She said he dumped her."
"Maybe they got back together," I suggested quickly. "She screamed for three days straight about how much she hates him now. I doubt it."
"You're sure she didn't tell you she was going somewhere? Like maybe..." Henry paused, clearly trying to think of anywhere else Katie could be. "Like maybe with relatives or something?" George rolled his eyes, "What relatives? Our nearest ones live in Australia." I bit my lip. "So she's gone," I said quietly. George nodded, and I saw tears in his eyes, though I would never say anything about them. "She's gone."
Penny Lane Knees
Penny Lane Knees is a story about two completely different people: Will, a thirty year-old man working in a cubicle with nothing but his love for the Beatles keeping him alive, and Kathryn, his high school sweetheart, who is currently 29 years old, too old for modeling and too young for retirement. Kathryn, who always wears pants when she's not modeling, because of her hatred of her knees, bumps into Will at a small boutique when she is searching for the perfect pair of jeans and he's trying to find directions to the nearest gas station. Surprisingly enough, while Kathryn recognizes Will straight off the bat and is filled with a mix of emotions that cause her to slap him and then kiss him, Will does not remember her at all and attempts to make a quick escape from the psycho he had just run into. Kathryn, upset that he doesn't remember her, force-invites him over to her place that evening to show him yearbooks and old photos of them together. When he shows up at her place tired and in a bad mood, she shows him the pictures, and he swears he doesn't remember a thing and begs to go home. Shocked, Kathryn releases him, only to find out soon after that the reason he didn't show up to their high school graduation, breaking her heart, was because on the way Will's gown got caught in the gears of his bike and he took a headlong trip to the pavement, coming up with a huge bruise, a lot of blood, and retrograde amnesia. She returns to Will to remind him of his past, his dreams, his talents, and his love for her.
"You never heard?" Frenchie asked as she chomped her gum and began painting my toenails, the smell of her salon filling my nostrils so that I could focus on little else. "Never heard what?"
"'Bout Willy. Why he ne'er showed up to our grad'i'ation."
"What are you talking about?" I asked, my eyebrows shooting up. She stared at me, pausing in her painting, "Well, gosh, I just assumed you knew. I thought that was why you ended the 'lationship. I mean, right, who wants to deal with a guy who doesn't even remember you? I wouldn't have stayed with him either, hon', not for all the love in the world." She chomped loudly on her gum and continued to paint my nails. "I haven't the slightest idea what in the world you are referring to, Frenchie. Please explain yourself." Frenchie looked up at me from underneath her long fake eyelashed and bright, sparkly eyeshadow. "I'm talkin' about Willy's accident. His spill, you know, gown caught in the gears of his bike, blood, guts, hospital, the works." Her pronunciation of "works" was so strongly accented, I probably wouldn't have really payed that much attention to what she had been actually saying, had it not caught me so off-guard. "What are you talking about?" I demanded again. "I'm talking about Willy's spill! His amnesia!" I blinked at her and sat back in the salon chair. "Amnesia?" I asked in a weak voice. "Yeaaa, hon'," Frenchia sighed, rolling her eyes as if I should have known about this. Well, really, I should have, shouldn't I? Why had no one ever told me?
How to Make a Victim
How to Make a Victim is a story of accusation, betrayal, lies, and murder. And it's a story of true honesty, and how to find it in a world where all seems lost.
"I didn't do it."
"Sure you didn't, Danny. Why in God's name should I believe you?"
"Because I'm telling the truth. You know me, Roach. You know I didn't do it." Roach threw up his hands, "I thought I knew you, Danny, I really did! You'd think that, after twelve years, you would know someone!" He turned quickly to me and grabbed the bars with his large hands. "I thought I knew everybody in this town, Danny," he hissed at me, "But I curse the day when I found out that wa'n't true. That, my former friend, is the only truth in the world you'll hear in all the days following this one 'til the day you die, whether that be in this hear courthouse or in your bed eighty years from now." He pulled away from the cell and spit on the ground, "And that's all I'll believe from anyone 'til the day I get so far away from this town that no one has heard of none of these here folks and them's crimes, them's murders." He stared down at the ground for a long time before looking up at the blank wall in front of him and then finally turning to me. "Be seein' ya, Danny boy," he said with a small, sad grin, "whether it'll be on the noose or in the bar, I'm not sure, but I'll be seein' ya." He tipped his hat to me and turned to go.
Good Evenings
Good Evenings is a story about a young boy growing up with insomnia and ADHD in a town where the streets at night are the last place a boy should be.
"Well hello there, boy. What should you be doing out on the streets at this time at night?" the woman asked. She was dressed elegantly, I s'posed it made sense considerin' the car she just stepped out of. She had a fur coat and high heels. Her hair was done up all fancy, and she was beautiful. Old, to me, but young to my mother. "Couldn't sleep, miss," I responded shyly. She looked around, "Well, is that any reason to be out on the streets at night? I've had many a night when I couldn't sleep, and I never opted to roaming the streets. Don't you have something better to be doing with your evening?" I kicked the ground with my sneaker, "Well, no, miss. See, I haven't been able to sleep for a long time, long's I can 'member. I used to play in my room, see, but I'm too old for playin' now." I stood up straighter at the end of my statement, to show her how much taller I was now than from when I had been little. She smiled slightly at me, "Of course you are." She kneeled, so now her beautiful face was at level with mine, "But there are lots of things you can do inside other playing, isn't that right?" She smiled, and I widened my eyes. I nodded quickly. "Well then," she said, standing up again, "where's your house?" I shrugged, "Down a couple streets." She frowned but then quickly removed the expression from her face, smiling again at me, "Would you like me to give you a ride back to your house so that you can explors all the things to do inside other than playing?" My eyes widened to the size of golf balls and I nodded quickly, "Yessum, miss! Thank you, miss!" She smiled and opened her car door for me, and I quickly climbed in, taking in the beauty of such a nice vehicle.
Cranberry Juice
Cranberry Juice is another of Devyn's murder mysteries, with a bit of a twist: the murderers are the also the murderees. Not suicide, exactly, but a group of people who have become partners in their crimes without realizing that one of them has a plan that they're part of, but that they're not told about: a plan to kill them.
I was the only one left. How had it come to this? How could it be that one of our very own, one who had spent so much time with us and planned with us and swore secrecy and alliance with us could have planned, all along, to kill us all? But as I sat there, hoping and praying that I was hidden well enough to be ignored in the shadows, I knew there was no wonder to it. He was a murderer. We were all murderers. It was only to be expected: that the murderer should murder. No murderer made alliance. No murderer trusted anyone. That, after all, was why we were murderers.
Friday Nights
Friday Nights is the story of a man and woman in their late twenties who have known each other since they were they were five but have never been on a date. Every friday night, however, they get together and go somewhere: the movies, a restaurant, a bookstore, an ice skating rink, a baseball game. But it's never a date.
"Where shall we go tonight, milady?" I asked with a smile as Rina opened her front door. She smiled widely, "Bingo night." I frowned, "Um, bingo night? Like, weekly-old-people-reunion bingo night?" She giggled and nodded, "Yup!"
"Why?" I asked. Her eyes sparkled, "Why not?"
"Because it's for old people?" She frowned at me, "Someday, Cain, you'll be old too, and then you'll regret having been so rude to yourself." I couldn't help but laugh at this as she reached into her entryway closet and pulled out her coat. She smiled at me, and I had a random memory of her smile in high school: filled with bright orange braces but still wide, grateful, and always excited for whatever was in store: for her life, and for our friday nights. I smiled back and offered her my arm, escorting her to the same pick-up truck I had been driving since I got my driver's license and she got her braces off.
© 2011
How to Make a Victim is a story of accusation, betrayal, lies, and murder. And it's a story of true honesty, and how to find it in a world where all seems lost.
"I didn't do it."
"Sure you didn't, Danny. Why in God's name should I believe you?"
"Because I'm telling the truth. You know me, Roach. You know I didn't do it." Roach threw up his hands, "I thought I knew you, Danny, I really did! You'd think that, after twelve years, you would know someone!" He turned quickly to me and grabbed the bars with his large hands. "I thought I knew everybody in this town, Danny," he hissed at me, "But I curse the day when I found out that wa'n't true. That, my former friend, is the only truth in the world you'll hear in all the days following this one 'til the day you die, whether that be in this hear courthouse or in your bed eighty years from now." He pulled away from the cell and spit on the ground, "And that's all I'll believe from anyone 'til the day I get so far away from this town that no one has heard of none of these here folks and them's crimes, them's murders." He stared down at the ground for a long time before looking up at the blank wall in front of him and then finally turning to me. "Be seein' ya, Danny boy," he said with a small, sad grin, "whether it'll be on the noose or in the bar, I'm not sure, but I'll be seein' ya." He tipped his hat to me and turned to go.
Good Evenings
Good Evenings is a story about a young boy growing up with insomnia and ADHD in a town where the streets at night are the last place a boy should be.
"Well hello there, boy. What should you be doing out on the streets at this time at night?" the woman asked. She was dressed elegantly, I s'posed it made sense considerin' the car she just stepped out of. She had a fur coat and high heels. Her hair was done up all fancy, and she was beautiful. Old, to me, but young to my mother. "Couldn't sleep, miss," I responded shyly. She looked around, "Well, is that any reason to be out on the streets at night? I've had many a night when I couldn't sleep, and I never opted to roaming the streets. Don't you have something better to be doing with your evening?" I kicked the ground with my sneaker, "Well, no, miss. See, I haven't been able to sleep for a long time, long's I can 'member. I used to play in my room, see, but I'm too old for playin' now." I stood up straighter at the end of my statement, to show her how much taller I was now than from when I had been little. She smiled slightly at me, "Of course you are." She kneeled, so now her beautiful face was at level with mine, "But there are lots of things you can do inside other playing, isn't that right?" She smiled, and I widened my eyes. I nodded quickly. "Well then," she said, standing up again, "where's your house?" I shrugged, "Down a couple streets." She frowned but then quickly removed the expression from her face, smiling again at me, "Would you like me to give you a ride back to your house so that you can explors all the things to do inside other than playing?" My eyes widened to the size of golf balls and I nodded quickly, "Yessum, miss! Thank you, miss!" She smiled and opened her car door for me, and I quickly climbed in, taking in the beauty of such a nice vehicle.
Cranberry Juice
Cranberry Juice is another of Devyn's murder mysteries, with a bit of a twist: the murderers are the also the murderees. Not suicide, exactly, but a group of people who have become partners in their crimes without realizing that one of them has a plan that they're part of, but that they're not told about: a plan to kill them.
I was the only one left. How had it come to this? How could it be that one of our very own, one who had spent so much time with us and planned with us and swore secrecy and alliance with us could have planned, all along, to kill us all? But as I sat there, hoping and praying that I was hidden well enough to be ignored in the shadows, I knew there was no wonder to it. He was a murderer. We were all murderers. It was only to be expected: that the murderer should murder. No murderer made alliance. No murderer trusted anyone. That, after all, was why we were murderers.
Friday Nights
Friday Nights is the story of a man and woman in their late twenties who have known each other since they were they were five but have never been on a date. Every friday night, however, they get together and go somewhere: the movies, a restaurant, a bookstore, an ice skating rink, a baseball game. But it's never a date.
"Where shall we go tonight, milady?" I asked with a smile as Rina opened her front door. She smiled widely, "Bingo night." I frowned, "Um, bingo night? Like, weekly-old-people-reunion bingo night?" She giggled and nodded, "Yup!"
"Why?" I asked. Her eyes sparkled, "Why not?"
"Because it's for old people?" She frowned at me, "Someday, Cain, you'll be old too, and then you'll regret having been so rude to yourself." I couldn't help but laugh at this as she reached into her entryway closet and pulled out her coat. She smiled at me, and I had a random memory of her smile in high school: filled with bright orange braces but still wide, grateful, and always excited for whatever was in store: for her life, and for our friday nights. I smiled back and offered her my arm, escorting her to the same pick-up truck I had been driving since I got my driver's license and she got her braces off.
© 2011
