– ‘The Magic of Wor(l)ds’ blog is a hobby, reviews and other bookish stuff on this site are done for free. –
Today I’m on the ‘Wicked Girl’ blogtour, organised by Damppebbles Blog Tour.
To promote this book I have an excerpt, but b
About the Author :
I.V. Olokita has been providing medical care most of his life, specializing in management of medical aid to disaster areas all over the world. He also has a BA degree in logistics, and an MA degree in emergency and disaster situations management. He volunteers to rescue missions in disaster areas all over the world. I. V. Olokita is a happily married father of two adolescents and a foster father of five cats and two dogs.
Olokita’s first book (in Hebrew), Ten Simple Rules, was published in 2014. It won an Israeli literary prize, and immediately made an online bestseller. The following year, another book by Olokita, The Executioner From The Silent Valley, made a local bestseller in Israel. In May 2016, his third novel, Wicked Girl, was published, to great success, and is now presented in English. Olokita’s books are characterized by direct writing, twists and turns, requiring the reader to delve into and maintain vigilance from the beginning of the book to its surprising end.
“Even if a dog goes mad, it will always be a dog.”
So said a small white sign hung on a wall in Birmingham Mental Institution Ward number 3. It had a black frame, written in a hand they were all well acquainted with. The letters had faded over time. In the end, among all the calligraphy in the frame, one could detect a blurred signature. It was mine.
John Wilcox is a young idler who loathes people except for young women. His destiny brought him near Birmingham Mental Institution during an earthquake. At that time Wilcox saves Elsie, an eccentric, half-deranged teenager. John pulls out every manipulation at his disposal to convince her that he is the right person to help her recover. Grey, Alessi’s father, goes on a quest for his lost daughter. She, too, like her mother, was trying to escape him. And so, began the tragic story between prey, and it’s supposed predator.
Wicked Girl is a psychological crime fiction, where a sequence of accidents generates cold-blooded, and blood-curdling actions. It is a fascinating combination of romance, tension, and humor, unpredictable to the very end. Presented in a clear, straightforward way, yet its plot is packed with wit, action, and surprises grabbing the reader’s attention all the way to the last word.
Both common people and the most experienced rescuers have two things on their mind. One is the primitive, animal fear of “I’ve got to get out of here in one piece, as soon as possible.” If it overrides all other thoughts, it will force you to run for safety. Yet in those very moments, a contradictory thought overpowers that demoralizing fear, at least in the bravest or the craziest minds: the wish for a heroes’ undying glory. Any good rescuer tries to keep the latter thought in mind, even though it might drive them to commit the most insane act of his life. Every person in his right mind understands that selfless heroes only belong in Hollywood classics, yet the very hope for a heroes’ glory makes the dangerous act far more desirable than daylight or a gulp of fresh air.
I, too, wished for another thought to possess me in those moments when I crawled on my belly, propelling myself onwards, with both my arms and legs, away from the narrow gap in the concrete, deeper into the abysmal pathway formed by the piled-up concrete beams. Yet any thought driving me back to daylight failed to come, leaving me free of any tormenting fears or hesitations. Finally, having no choice, I had to open my eyes, crawling forward, following the narrow path of light from my headlamp, the only source of light in the pitch dark.
And then I spotted her eyes.
She had the greenest eyes in the world, and they were so bloody bright. In those eyes, the world looked like the greenest grass ever watered by nightly dew and through which sunlight danced with a plethora of colors, such colors, which even the Good Lord gave rather sparingly. No matter how hard she tried to keep them open, the dust and concrete particles kept sneaking in her green eyes, building up irritating spots, which finally forced her to wink and shed plenty of tears. Yet all the while, defying all the efforts of her eyelids to make her cry, she kept humming a happy tune she had once heard:
Hey, hey, Sunday is a special day
Just drink your fill and sleep it away
No work today for us, I say.
Sunday’s special, special day.
She could never see what was so bloody special about Sunday. She could have seen it if her father at least avoided beating her or cursing her long-dead mother on Sundays, yet he used to do it all week round. Elsie closed her eyes and kept them painfully closed, listening to the earth. Realizing the poundings from the ceiling hanging by a thread were as loud as before, she waited for the earth to stop quaking, before opening her eyes. Her hand probed her face, wiping off the dust and concrete crumbs and trying to shake them off her whitened hair. She shrugged, and then stretched out her five foot three figure. “You’re handsomely tall for a girl of sixteen,” father used to praise her whenever he wanted her to keep him company, and she was pleased to hear that. To be honest, Elsie wasn’t mad at anyone: neither at Mother Earth for shaking so hard at lunchtime, making the chunks of concrete wall her in while she lay in bed on the Institution’s Ward’s third floor, or even at her only family member alive despite remembering all the liberties he used to take with her while she was his tenant. To the contrary: she experienced peculiar happiness, that made her smile all over her face and burst with laughter which echoed from the chunks of concrete before dying out. Elsie kept lying for many minutes, until her eyelids dropped, succumbing to exhaustion. Yet even now, haunted by delusions for the last two days, she could not sleep. “It feels insane,” she thought, yet dismissed it right away, frightened. “But I’m not.”
“Dammit.” Elsie uttered a desperate cry, her mind too much in turmoil to figure out how she got at this outlandish place and how the hell could she get out of it. She had to recall everything, to the smallest detail, so she held her breath to focus. Still, something didn’t fit. What struck her as most absurd was that her breasts and hands looked larger than how she remembered them the day before when she regained her senses on the floor among the rubble.
The Magic of Wor(l)ds