I’m lucky enough to have my work included in The Rabbit Hole Volume 5: Just…Plain…Weird anthology along with quite a group of talented authors. I especially love the teaser
Welcome to the Rabbit Hole. On our fifth excursion into the warren of the odd, 37 authors lead us down their own little burrows of strangeness : an army of penguins, music that cures, aliens that communicate through old cartoons, images of the future that save, unwanted visions of the now, and, oh yes, it is raining lawyers. All have one thing in common, they are just…plain…weird.
Weird can be funny, weird can be sad, weird can be thoughtful, weird can be mad, but the one thing in common is that weird shares experiences you have, thankfully, never had.
Just be careful, all little bunnies are not nice, but they are memorable.
About the Author
Christina Hoag is the author of novels Law of the Jungle, The Blood Room, Girl on the Brink and Skin of Tattoos, and co-authored Peace in the Hood: Working with Gang Members to End the Violence. A former journalist for the Miami Herald and Associated Press, she reported from Latin America for nearly a decade for major media including Time, Business Week, New York Times, Financial Times, and Houston Chronicle among other media. Her short stories and essays have been published in numerous literary reviews, including Toasted Cheese, Lunch Ticket and Shooter, and have won several awards. For more information visit https://christinahoag.com.
How the stories came about?
I’m fascinated by the fact that we all run into many people every day, but we don’t know who they are, where they come from, what they’re about. The guy on the corner could be a serial killer. The woman getting her hair cut could be a billionaire. Every person has their own story. In Eye Witness, I invented an eye that really sees people, particularly people’s secrets. The protagonist, David, soon realizes how this knowledge could be a useful thing, but then sees that sometimes you’re better off not knowing much about people.
David Shatzkin blinked. Summer sun rays slashed through the slits in the teak blinds and flayed his eyes. He rolled over and picked up his phone on his bedside table. Nine thirty-seven. Crap. He had hoped to sleep til noon. What time did he get home? Four-thirty, five? He vaguely recalled the cabbie flying through a string of green lights up Park Avenue. His mouth was dry as stale pound cake. His temples throbbed. It was a helluva night, all right. It seemed like he didn’t miss a beat from three years ago when he and his three roommates were NYU seniors, starting weekends on Thursday nights and getting shitfaced around Greenwich Village.
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