With the release date of Walking Between Worlds; Book I: Demons & Angels coming closer, my excitement continues to grow. I look forward to sharing this offering.
I want to take this opportunity to explain one distinction I plan to make with this book. My first book, Stumbling Backasswards Into the Light, was and will continue to be published under the name Jay Norry. That book, and others to follow, offers both insights into my philosophy and a window into my personal life. People that know me know me as Jay Norry, and all of the books I publish under that name are for the folks interested in my continually evolving philosophies and life.
This book will be published under J. K. Norry, as will others in this series and others in this genre. This is a novel, someone else’s story that will never be known in this world unless I write it. I’m not trying to take myself any more seriously than I deserve or anything; I just want to make the distinction, for both myself and my dear readers. I hope that everyone likes both categories, and can find a great deal of entertaining and thought-provoking material in every book I write. Now you will know just by the name what my latest offering is about, and I like it that way; I hope you do too,
Mason drove with one hand on the wheel and the other constantly busy with some other vitally important task. Crossing Third Avenue, his right hand flipped through the pages of a thick case full of compact discs. Bloodshot eyes dancing between the road before him and the choices on the seat beside him, pages turned past Led Zeppelin and Pink Floyd, Sheryl Crow and Jewel, Megadeth, Bob Dylan, Katy Perry, even a Garth Brooks CD. He turned rapidly until he had gone past two pages full of AC/DC discs. Turning back a page, stealing a quick glance at the road, he slid a disc from its plastic sleeve and smoothly into the player on the dash. As the first strains of Hell’s Bells filled the car, a slight smile softened Mason’s face for a moment.
The passenger seat was for more than just music, though. A pack of Camel Lights lay next to a powder blue Bic lighter right where he had tossed them when he got in the car. The half-burnt roach in his mouth became smoky breakfast as orange flame leapt from the lighter. The windshield was lost behind a cloud of white-blue smoke for a moment while he dropped the lighter onto the seat next to him again, grasped the wheel with his right hand and worked the window crank with his left.
Smoke swirled out the thumb’s width opening, and the windshield cleared to reveal a green light on Seventh and a clear road ahead. There weren’t even any pedestrians on the sidewalk.
Mason swung down the visor and met his own eyes in the mirror inset for a long moment, hazel on white shot with red. The joint left his mouth for the first time since he had left the apartment, as he flipped the visor back into place and gently stubbed the smoking tip into the ashtray.
There were pedestrians at Eighth Avenue, two slim asian girls in shorts and tank tops and running shoes. They pumped their legs up and down, waiting for the signal and chatting while their sneakers tattooed a light rhythm on the sidewalk. Mason rolled to a smooth stop as the signal changed and watched bobbing ponytails and small dancing breasts cross in front of his car. One girl, young and pretty and all in shades of blue, glanced over in the last moment before they cleared his car. By then, Mason had turned away to look in the center console for some eye drops.
By the time the light turned to his favor, Mason had carefully squirted a few drops in each eye, wiped a little remainder and a bit of sleep from each eye, and relit the joint.
Brian Johnson was singing the first few bars of Back in Black as Mason slipped his foot off the brake pedal and mashed the accelerator. The vehicle lurched forward, trailing cannabis smoke and guitar riffs and picking up speed.