What I’m Doing Now:

I just started work on my sequel novel. Here’s an early look (I just wrote it a couple days ago):

 

Into the Realm, Book 2:

The Chronicles of Sera Blake, Book I

R.w.Foster

Chapter 1

Sweat flew through the air in time to the rhythmic slap of the rope against the floor. Though she stared at the gym mirror, Sera Blake did not register the frizz of her soaked curly brown hair, the flush of her skin, nor the ripple of well-defined muscles exposed by the navy sport bra and training shorts. Her focus was on her upcoming match against Broderick Stevenson, star lacrosse player at Johns-Hopkins University. He was a formidable opponent: Currently at ninety-five wins, two losses, and three decisions. Of his victories, ninety were by knockout. She didn’t care about his record too much. The more important thing was his reach. At eighty-four inches, she would have to get in close. He hadn’t won a match by submission since the early days of his career, so she figured that was the strategy to employ. Still, it wouldn’t do to underestimate him.

Her mentor, Georges Juarez, had made that mistake. He’d gone six rounds with Stevenson without really being touched. Georges had Stevenson bleeding from his nose, lower lip, and a mouse under his right eye. Before the final round, her mentor had told her to watch closely.

“I’m gonna jab with my left, hit him with a right hook, and then I’m gonna put him down with Blitzkrieg.

Sera gave a mental chuckle at the silly name Georges had given his devastating left haymaker. Ordinarily, it was a match-ender, but it was not to be that night. Stevenson had tanked her mentor’s hardest punch and unleashed three rapid-fire uppercuts to his jaw, putting Georges to the mat, and later to the hospital. Georges’ jaw had been broken in four places.

Most folks who followed the underground Mixed Martial Arts scene figured that the upcoming fight was a misguided attempt at revenge. Sera like Georges, but didn’t care about his loss. The way she saw it, Georges was irrelevant. Broderick Stevenson was the important one. He was recognized as the best. She needed to beat him so that she would get that recognition. It was her passion, her fire, her life to be the best fighter ever. That goal was paramount; the first thing on her mind when she woke, and the last thing on her mind when she slept.

The snap of a cassette tape startled her out of her reverie. The whirl of the jump rope came to a halt, and she noticed she was dripping wet and breathing hard. She walked over to the wall and hung up the rope. She whipped sweat from her face with the towel on the bench below, and drained a liter of water in several long swallows. She dropped the bottle next to a couple other empties and swapped out Fall Out Boy’s Save Rock and Roll tape for Metallica’s S&M. The sounds of cheering fans echoed from the house’s sound system as she walked into the shower. She undressed to the sounds of The Ecstasy of Gold and started washing to the notes of The Call of Ktulu.

 

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