Lost in a sea of novels...

It's funny, in a way.  As a reader, I bemoaned the lack of good fantasy novels.  Sure, there are hundreds out there, but I thought I had read everything of note.  As a writer, I am facing a far different problem -- how do I make my book stand out?  And even if I do, how do I make people search long enough to actually find it?  It's buried under hundreds of best sellers, and I'm not sure how to get it to rise to the top.  I realize that it's a process, and that, over time, word will spread.  But I can't help but be a little impatient.

Anyway, just thought I'd share a little nugget of what's on my mind right now.

New Site Layout

I have altered the blog a little by adding a few new pages. These pages are located at the top of the blog, and are as follows:

Home: This will display the latest blog post

About Me: This is a short biography focusing on how I came to write my first novel, Heartkeeper: Volume One

The Future: This details what books I have planned for the near future.

About Heartkeeper: Volume One: This page is where you'll find the blurb for the book as well as the links to where you can get your copy.

Characters: This page will give a little additional detail on my major characters. Right now, it's only about Heartkeeper: Volume One, but in the future, it will contain a section for each novel.

Sample Chapter: This is where you will find the sample chapter of Heartkeeper: Volume One. In the future, I will have a separate page containing the sample chapters for each of my novels.

Guest Bloggers: This page doesn't have anything yet, but in the future, I will have guest bloggers (with reviews, opinions, etc.).

Essays: Occasionally I will write an essay pertaining to some writing issue. This is where I will archive them.


My Favorite Books/Authors: As the title suggests, this is where I will detail some of my favorite books and/or authors.

My Favorite Movies: I love movies, so I figured I'd put a page in here about my favorite movies.

This may change as I think of other things I'd like to archive, but it's a good start.  I hope this makes the site easier to navigate.

Available on the Nook

I just realized that I hadn't posted that my book, Heartkeeper: Volume One is now available on the Nook via Barnes and Noble.  I don't have a Nook, so I'm not sure about finding it on there, but I'm sure if you're interested, you can just search for N.R. Searcy or Heartkeeper: Volume One.  Anyway, the link to the listing is

Heartkeeper: Volume One

A Sample Chapter

I've had a few people remark that they would buy my novel if they had a Kindle.  Many of you may have iPhones, iPads or Nooks.  To those of you with iPhones or iPads, there is a Kindle application available for those devices which will allow you to read Kindle ebooks.  More information on that can be found HERE.  To those of you with Nooks or other e-readers, my novel will be available on those devices within a week or two (it has to go through an approval process with each individual carrier, and that can take time).  

That said, I thought it would be cool to throw a sample chapter out there for those of you who want to test the waters and see if it's to your taste.  I know it won't be the sort of book everyone will enjoy (we all prefer different genres, after all), so give it a quick read before you buy it.  

Also, if you do buy the novel, please don't hesitate to write a short review for the Amazon website.  Even if all you do is give it a star rating, that would help.  I know I've been selling books (I've seen the stats, after all), and I want the book's listing to reflect that.  

And finally, I want to everyone to know how much I appreciate your support.  I started writing as a way of entertaining myself, but I have to admit that I get excited every time someone buys my book.  So thanks for that.

And without further ado, here is the sample chapter.

Heartkeeper: Volume One

Chapter One

It was a good shadow, dark and deep – or deep enough, at least.  It stretched across the mouth of the alley, and its darkness was nearly impenetrable after only a couple of feet.  Flick crouched, motionless on a moonless night, his knees in his chest, with his bright eyes searching the gloom.  His hands clutched a small, golden Box fervently as his gaze darted to and fro.  He was alert, ever watchful for intruders into his shadowy sanctuary.

The heavy fall of a boot on the flagged stones of the nearby street told Flikk that his pursuers had not given up.  They were still hot on his trail.  The shadow would hide him, he told himself, and he almost even believed it.

A shiny, black boot stepped into view, and Flikk's heart sank as its owner – a tall, broad-shouldered figure –  followed.  He peered back the way he had come, and said something Flikk could not hear.  Unworldly though he was, Flikk recognized the man for what he was – one of the King's personal guards.  But what was he doing in Linston, so far from Nou Tyran?  Flikk sank deeper into the shadow, clutching his prize to his chest.

Another guard joined the first.  And then another.  More came until a full ten congregated at the head of the alley.  He knew they were discussing how best to continue the hunt for their prey, for Flikk himself, and the boy caught himself leaning forward, trying to catch the details of their conversation.  Silently reprimanding himself for nearly giving away his position, he studied his pursuers.

They carried no weapons.  Rumor said that they did not need them, instead preferring to do their business with the tools with which they had been born.  Their reputation was legendary.  That they were deadly was the least of their rumored traits.  He sank even deeper into the shadow, hoping that it might hide him from their murderous eyes.

He clutched his prize to his chest as he waited, eagerly straining to hear whatever words drifted his way.   Flikk knew that any information he could glean from their conversation as to their path of pursuit would be invaluable.  He had run from enough lawmen to know that much.  As he waited, though, his mind wandered.  Inevitably, it focused on how the events of that night had been so out of character for him, the most cautious of thieves.

It had started with the theft itself.  A good thief, he had been taught, never steals anything too valuable.  The trick was to find something with enough worth to fetch a pretty penny, but not enough that the owner would truly miss it. Flikk had never taken it upon himself to steal anything so valuable as the Box, though.  How he had even known it was in that house, he could not say.  But, unerringly, he had known the abandoned house, the room on the second floor, and even the exact cabinet in which it had been kept.  Why anyone would keep such an item in that derelict building, in that shabby cabinet, he could not fathom.

The house had been unguarded, unlocked, and his entry did not even warrant recollection.  What he remembered, and what he would be unable to forget for the rest of his life, was the feeling.  It had washed over him like a tidal wave as soon as his eyes had rested on the Box's golden sides.  Conflicting sensations had battered his consciousness.  He had felt cold and hot, angry and peaceful, content and restless.  A war of emotions had raged inside of his head, and at some point – he did not know when, exactly – he had collapsed.  Some time later, he had found himself lying on the floor of that dusty, old house, his hand outstretched, with a fist sized golden Box resting in his palm.

Confusion had been his first emotion after the Box.  Then had come fear.  How long had he been there?  Had he made any noise?  He had known that he needed to get out of there, and fast.  The window through which he had entered beckoned, and silently, he padded towards it, his bare feet making little noise.  A door had slammed, he remembered.  It had been followed by the unmistakable trample of heavy boots and muffled voices.  Someone had found him out.

Hastily, Flikk had leaped onto the window's ledge, and he had crouched there for only a brief moment, his golden Box cradled in one arm, the other grasping the window's frame.  And then he had jumped.

With agility born from years of using the sloping roofs of Linston as a highway, Flikk had tumbled through the air until the ground rose up to meet him.  A quick roll, and he had been on his feet, sprinting away from any pursuit.  The slap of his feet on the road had followed him as he ran through the familiar streets.  That late at night, they had been empty.  No vendors.  No pedestrians.  Nothing.  He remembered longing for a crowd into which he could disappear. 

Knowing in his heart that he could not simply outrun the pursuit, he had done what any good thief would – he went to ground.  And so, he had found himself ducking into that shadowy alley, hiding from what he knew to be the most vicious and frightful killers in the Tyrani Kingdom. 

One of the guards pointed this way and that, obviously directing his subordinates.  In turn, each of the guards spread out, going about the search.  He let out a sigh of relief.  No one came into his alley.

Flikk shifted his weight, and felt the cool metal of the Box touch the bare skin of his chest.  His shirt, full of holes as it was, offered scant protection. Flikk let out a blood-curdling scream as the Box's once-cool metal turned white hot in an instant.  Wisps of smoke rose from Flikk's chest as he writhed on the ground, his pained screams echoing off of the stone walls.  In a moment of lucidity, he let go of the Box, expecting it to fall away, but it did not.  The Box had its own plan, and the last thing Flikk saw before he passed out in agony was the golden Box burrowing into his chest, and, in the background, the rushing boots of the guards.

*     *    *

Aime's eyes popped open suddenly.  She had not been sleeping, but instead had been deep in meditation.  But her meditation had been interrupted, the slamming of the heavy, metal door of the cell next to hers intruding, echoing throughout her troubled mind.  Aime sat on the small cot, her head drooping, and her pale hair formed a curtain through which she could not see the bleak confines of her lonely cell.  She raised her head slightly, her tresses parting like a curtain to reveal the all-too-familiar rough, gray stones of her hated prison.  The walls were immaterial, she knew.  For all their strength, they were still just rock, and that, she could handle.  No, the walls did not matter.  Nor was the heavy door and its complex lock the true means of her imprisonment. 

She flinched as a scream pierced the confines of her cell.  Vaguely, Aime wondered who or what was unlucky enough to become her new neighbor.  She shook her head, knowing that it was an exercise in futility.  She had no idea where she even was, much less what sort of creature or criminal might warrant being thrown into a Void Dungeon.  Beyond the name and a vague idea of how it worked, she only knew that to create one required many, many sacrifices.  She fingered the bracelet on her wrist.  Locks upon locks.  Her captors took no chances with a sorceress, even a relatively untrained one like Aime.

Aime closed her eyes, but she did not see darkness or the backs of her eyelids.  She saw the flow of the her cell.  Aime knew it was not really sight which granted her perception, but she liked to think of it as such.  She could see the cell still, and it was comprised of those same, familiar gray stones, but to her magical sight, there was so much more.  She could see their essence; she could feel their pulse.  She knew their history, from when they were formed until they were quarried and shaped by the hands of men.  Aime looked past the stones, and into the face of the spell which had created the Void Dungeon.

It was cold and lifeless.    How many had died in its creation?  She shivered at the cost even as she looked for the lines of power, the spell's foundation.  She let her perception shift from one plane to another, and eventually, she found them.  Blue and quivering, they formed a web across the entire cell. 

Aime's mind followed one particular line, finally falling to rest on the portion of the spell on which she had been concentrating before the slamming door had interrupted her.  The line was frayed ever so slightly, and tendrils of power flapped about as if in a high wind.  Aime set to work once more. 

She could not do much, having only a small fraction of her power at her disposal, but Aime bent every ounce of her concentration to the task.   The pulse of the spell slowed, and full seconds passed between each beat of Aime's heart.  Time itself seemed to slow with the intensely focused consciousness of her ability. 

Finally, one strand popped free, joining the few others which Aime had managed to unravel.  She let out a breath, and opened her eyes.  A familiar but overwhelming weariness fell upon her, body and mind, and she nearly collapsed onto her cot.  But it was a good day.  She had made progress.  Most days she did not.

Even had she the inclination to figure it out, Aime would have been unable to tell how long she had been there.  Her days were marked only by the screeching of the metal flap through which her jailers passed a dirty, wooden bowl containing some unknown, largely tasteless gruel.  She might have been there for months.   She only looked forward to her task, that all-important unraveling of the spell which imprisoned her.  So focused was her mind that the passage of days had quickened, and against all odds, she had come to enjoy the challenge of deconstructing that hateful, lifeless spell.

She drew closer and closer to finding the spell's weakness each day.  One after the other, she had plucked the threads of each line apart.  It was like peeling the strands from a a rope, if only the rope had millions of strands, and those strands each were coated with butter.  Aime sat up, having rested enough, and began preparing her mind for another attempt.  Before she could, however, the cell door swung suddenly open.  Its hinges creaked with its weight, and Aime looked up to see a wraith-like, shadowy figure standing in the doorway.  The light at his back, he was a silhouette in the doorway.

“I see that these last few weeks have been an ordeal for you, sweet Aime of Mibaris,” a distinctly male, yet melodious voice said.  “You are ready to cooperate, yes?”

Aime glared, but did not answer.

“Ah, I so it love it when you guests fight it,” he said.  Aime saw the flash of his white teeth, and knew that he had smiled.  “It gives me the opportunity to practice my trade.”  He stepped closer, and Aime cowered.  She knew what was coming.  “Please, my angel, do not hesitate to scream in appreciation of this gift.  Many have, and I view it as a compliment.”

He raised his hand, and Aime screamed as fire ran through every nerve.  Her body convulsed in agony.  The man loomed over her, illuminated from behind, watching Aime writhe on the ground. She screamed and cried, pleading for respite.  The smile never left his face.

*    *    *

Flikk jerked awake, flinging his eyes open.  His neighbor's screams echoed throughout the dungeon, eerily bouncing off of the walls and ringing in his ears.  He sat up, and looked around his cell, pondering his predicament.  The last thing he remembered was lying on the ground, the King's guards rushing at him.  What had happened in the interim?  They had obviously brought him here, but why?   He had been caught stealing before, but he had never been put in a solitary cell.

And then Flikk recalled the Box, and tentatively, he raised his hand to his chest.  There was a scar – a perfect square the size of the box – directly over his heart.  Where had the Box gone?  Did they have it?  Panic threatened to overwhelm him.  He wanted it, needed it.  It was as vital as breathing.  As quickly as it came, the panic subsided, leaving him breathless.  Though he did not remember where it had gone, or what had happened, Flikk knew that the Box was with him.  It was a part of him, he was sure.  But what did that mean? 

More importantly, what was to become of him?  Box or no Box, he found it hard to hope that he could escape this prison.  He had to try, though.  Flikk groaned as he stood, stretching his arms from one side of the cell to the other.  He could reach both sides easily. Flikk knelt, and, starting at the bottom where the floor met the wall, he began to run his nimble fingers along the stone.

Pausing here and there, he tried to ignore his neighbor's screams as he inspected his cell.  Back and forth, his attentive hand searched the solid wall for some weakness.  Steadily organized, he continued along the wall, each passage of his hand a little higher than the last.  He was about halfway up when the screaming stopped.  The resulting silence was oppressively stifling.  It was a long moment before he heard the muffled sounds of someone talking, but it was meaningless to him, incomprehensibly garbled by the thickness of the stone barrier.  Finally, Flikk heard the unmistakeably metallic sound of a heavy door shutting.

He continued to survey his prison until he found a small crack, barely an inch wide.  He had missed it on his first pass, but Flikk had always been thorough.  His second inspection had yielded results.

Flikk put his ear to the crack, and he heard a distinctive sound.  He heard the clear sounds of a girl's weeping.

*    *     *

Sobbing in the corner, near where she had once toiled to unravel the spell imprisoning her in the awful cell, Aime clutched her knees to her chest, and buried her face in her folded arms..  She had not broken – not this time, at least.  Aime had remained silent, even with the pain, even with that dreadful man standing over her, torturing her to within an inch of madness.  Her entire body had been afire, but nothing burned.  There were no marks, no physical effects.  The emotional aftermath more than made up for the lack, however. 

She was helpless, and she knew it.  And so, she cried.  Aime had never felt so alone in all of her life.  So weak, so feeble, she wept with hopelessness.  She had stared into the face of her tormentor countless times, but she still had no idea who he was, what he wanted, or even what he looked like.  And that heightened her fear.  What type of man could torture someone so callously, or could be so nonchalant while doing so?  What power could inflict such pain?  And why?  The mystery of his motivation burned in her mind even as the tears flowed freely.  Why would someone do that to her?  She was not special, not particularly gifted as a sorceress. What cooperation did he want?  Would it be so bad to give it, if doing so would stop the pain? 

No.  Submission was death, Aime had been taught at the Academy in Mibaris.  She would not give in.

Not for the first time, she thought back to her capture.  It had been night when they had taken her, and she had never even seen her captors.  She could only remember flashes of the journey, but Aime knew that it had been a long one.  A glimpse out of the window of a carriage here, or a faceless person there – she hardly knew anything of the trip.  They had crossed a sea, but that was unsurprising.   Mibaris was, after all, an island, and it certainly was not her own people who had taken her.  Beyond that, where she was, who had taken her, and why were all mysteries yet to be solved. 

And each day, the torturer would appear, and he would ask that same question.  Always pleasant.  Always cool.  He would ask for her cooperation.  She had yet to answer, and he had yet to leave her unhurt.

Aime was nearly to the end of her rope.  How long she could remain stoic, she did not know, but she knew her limit would be reached sooner rather than later.  Eventually, she would break.  Days, months –  how long had it been?  She worked tirelessly to escape, but her will was waning, and she would eventually surrender completely to her hopelessness.  It was only a matter of time.

“Hello?” a muffled voice called from behind Aime, and she nearly jumped in surprise.  Through the wall, the sound seemed to travel, and it startled her from her deep melancholy.

“Is someone there?” the same voice asked.  Aime almost did not answer.  What if it was a trick?  But what if it was not?  Her mind grasped the thin thread of hope that another person might represent, and she responded.

“Hello?  Is someone there?” she asked dumbly.  Of course someone else was there, she thought.  Mentally berating herself for such a dimwitted response.  Aime continued, “I mean, who is it?”

“Are you okay?  I heard screaming,” the voice said.  She could not be certain, but it sounded like a young boy.  The accent was strange. 

“I...” she hesitated.  How could she answer?  Even if she wanted to pour her heart out to that stranger on the other side of the wall, how could she convey the depth of her despair?  “I'm fine.”

“Are you sure?  I can hear you crying, you know.  And I know someone was hurting you. Do you know where we are?  Why are we here?” the boy's questions spilled out in a rush.

“I don't know where we are, and like I said, I'm fine,” Aime's tone was harsher than she really intended.

“Okay,” was the boy's answer.

There was a brief silence, but Aime could tell that he was still on the other side of the wall.  How she knew was inexplicable, but the surety was there all the same.  She closed her eyes, and leaned her head back against the wall, tilting her head towards the ceiling.  She sighed.

“I'm Flikk,” the voice said.

“What?” Aime asked.

“Flikk.  That's my name,” the boy responded.

“Oh.  Kind of a funny name,” Aime said.

A hint of indignation touched Flikk's voice when he said, “Only one I've got.”

After a couple of seconds, Aime softened her tone, and said, “I didn't mean anything by it.  I'm Aime.”

A long silence stretched out between them, but after a few moments, Flikk broke it.  “Nice to meet you, I guess.”