A little randomness for your Thursday night….

I recently got introduced to Cupid’s Literary Connection, a dating service for agents and authors. My “dating profile” consists of my query and first 250 of the manuscript. I never got to try any online dating, so here goes:

When a bike ride home in the rain leaves Evy Rivera crawling with baby lightning she can command as a weapon, she’s forced to consider her long-time issues with electrical storms may be more serious than she thought.

As her father, Vic, unpacks a mysterious box containing secret workbooks, another lightning strike catapults them both back in time.  Vic lands in NYC and battles mobsters while Evy takes in the atmosphere of ancient Spain and meets a strange old woman unfazed by Evy’s appearance.

Back home, they compare notes.  Evy wants to go again, but Vic’s hellish trip leaves him concerned about their safety.  A stranger appears and offers Vic guidance, but shuns Evy since females can’t ride lightning.

Unwilling to stand aside, Evy returns to Spain.  There, she finds the old woman waiting, and asking for Evy’s help to stop the man mentoring Vic before he reshapes history.  Now Evy must decide where to place her trust.  Armed with nothing but lightning and gut instincts, will she choose correctly before someone gets killed?

First 250 words of LIGHTNING RIDER:
EVY RIVERA

I hate lightning.  It makes me hurt.  Since I’m not sure why, I work insanely hard to avoid it.

Take today.  I rearranged my entire schedule so I could work inside all night buried deep in the back of the shop, then come out to bright sunshine tomorrow morning.

Figures Nick would find a way to force me out into the storm.

I can’t feel the rumble of thunder over the vibration of the bike, but the lightning’s sting fires across every nerve ending.  Blindfolded, I can mark where each white-hot finger fissures the night.  It’s mirrored with nasty precision along the inside of my ribs.  Big storms like this make me feel like I’ve swallowed a bug zapper along with an entire wasp nest.

Another twisted fork spears the blackness, illuminating the snow-capped Wasatch Mountains in an uneven light.  They curl forward like huge monsters chasing me through the darkness.  I’m far more concerned about the monsters in my belly.

Beneath my wide drag bars, skulls dance across the gas tank, animated by the night’s shifting personality.  The sharp snap of ozone mingles with the heavy perfume of rain.  I glance up at the storm clouds.  Blue bolts race across the underside of their black bellies, tumbling over one another like baby demons gathering in an enormous beast.  I can feel it inhale, preparing to belch a stream of lighting fire through me.

Another ping fires low in my belly, and I hold my breath until the pain subsides.  Hate lightning.  Hate, hate, hate it.  I mean, I’m glad nosy neighbor Mrs.  Steinaman called to tell me what was going on, but why couldn’t he just move his own stuff out and leave mine alone?  We had a plan.