Spotlight on Kai Strand

Our final spotlight of the year is on Kai Strand. Oh hey. That's me! How about if I introduce myself?

Kai interviewing readers for her
YouTube Channel

Perhaps you expect my bio to tell you things about me, such as I hate to handle raw meat, I’m a wife and mother of four, a compulsive walker, and a Mozart fangirl. But since I have your attention, what I really want you to know is that I love that you read. Readers are smart, quick-witted, and usually good conversationalists—even if it’s only in their head. Introverts unite!

I write middle grade fiction because those are the most formative years of our lives. It’s when we are trying to claim our freedom, while still being restricted by rules. The things we learn in books can give us the skills to navigate that maze. I write young adult fiction because there are no limits to what message I share or how I share it. Plus young adult readers are some of the most passionate readers out there. I heart YA readers.

If you’d like an image of me as a writer, go ahead and picture me with my laptop in a quaint bookshop café, fingers flying over the keys while the words pour out of my fingertips. It’s much better than the real image of me in my pajamas with coffee breath, sinking into the me-sized crater in the couch, grumbling at my laptop when the words don’t come.

LQR: Tell our readers a little about you.

Kai: I was raised in Wisconsin and California. I’m raising my kids in Oregon. I’m addicted to pizza. I’ve accurately predicted two earthquakes.

LQR: If you had to pick only one moment that spurred you to write professionally, what moment is the most inciting?

Kai: The summer before my daughter went into fourth grade she and I plowed through the first four books in the Harry Potter series. When summer ended and I was left alone with my four year old during the day – eagerly awaiting the publication of HP book 5 – I started having Hogwarts withdrawals. So I decided to create a fantasy world of my own. It took me less than two months to write the 85,000 words of my first novel. But it took me nine years to get those words into a publishable order. It eventually became my middle grade fantasy novel, Beware of the White, and was my fourth published book.

LQR: Does the majority of your work focus around or within a single theme?

Kai: No. The only common thread is fiction. Other than that my published work consists of fantasy, contemporary, speculative fiction, romance, suspense, and paranormal

LQR: Tell us about your newest release.

Kai: I am super excited to have completed my Super Villain Academy series with the publication of the third book, Super Bad. I’ve also worked with my publisher to release a second edition of the first book in the series, King of Bad, with bonus material. I added two additional scenes to the story. The SVA series was so much fun to write. First of all, angsty teens with super powers? Fun! Second, it was a real study in not just the age-old theme of good vs. evil, but also the importance of both in our world. Finally, my publisher made a boxed set for those readers who like to wait until a series is complete and save some money in the process.

LQR: What is one of your favorite authorial moments from your career so far?

Kai: Honestly it happened at a funeral. I was hugging a girl whose grandfather had passed away and telling her I wish I could do more to help her through the pain of mourning. She said, “Write more. Seriously, your writing really helps.” It was such an unexpected time and place to receive a cheer for my writing that it has become one of the most memorable moments.

LQR: Share with us a five year and ten year goal for your writing career.

Kai: This has changed so drastically from last year! I seriously slowed down this year and focused on all things not writing. Up to now, I’ve published at least two books per year. Now I’ve decided to take my time with each new book and really shape the story. Of course I think my published work is awesome, but I want to always improve my writing. Give my readers more. Hence the new approach. So, five years and ten years from now, I hope to have more books out and I hope each book is the reader’s new favorite Kai Strand book.

LQR: Do you write what you read? Watch? What are your favorite television shows and movies?

Kai: I do and then some. Just like my writing is eclectic, so are my reading and television habits. I read mostly young adult fiction, but pepper in middle grade and adult fiction. I love to hop from a horror to a sweet romance to a mystery to an issues book. As far as television and movies, I eat up as many of the super hero themed entertainment as I can! Avengers, Thor, and Captain America (series) are my favorite Marvel movies. The kids and I watch Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. I’m catching up on Flash on Netflix, and I’m hoping Super Girl will prove worth watching. It’s nice to get some DC in there. I wish Constantine had made it! Loved that show. But I watch other things too. Survivor, The Voice, Reign, GRIMM, football, and local news.

LQR: If you had one week away from any and all responsibility what would you want to spend your time doing?

Kai: I would want it to be on a warm beach, with cabana boys, umbrella drinks and a fully stocked Kindle. NO social media anywhere in site, but someone back home keeping it going for me so I didn’t have to virtually start over again when I returned home.

LQR: Anything else you’d like to add?

Kai: I’m so grateful to the Lightning Quick Reads authors for taking this journey with me this year. It has been a real growth experience for my writing and I hope each author has gotten at least one benefit from it. And I’d like to thank the readers. Writing is most satisfying for an author when their work is in the hands of a reader. I hope you have found a new favorite author or two (I have!)

LQR: Where can readers find you online?

Kai: Oh so many places! Pick your poison:

www.kaistrand.com|Mailing List| Facebook| Twitter| Instagram|Amazon

Into the Fire: A Super Villain Academy short story by Kai Strand

Crime does pays and crime costs.

“Dogs? Dogs I got.” –Mystic from King of Bad

***

Source

“Stay!” Wilson yelled.

The whirring of helicopter blades approached the field. All sixty of his dogs sat in a circle around the outer edge of the field.

“Staaaay!” the man croaked again, always accompanying the verbal command with the hand signal.

Fur stirred as the helicopter descended. None of the dogs even looked at the copter overhead.

“Good.” Though he knew they could no longer hear him, the canines’ behavior encouraged Wilson.

Ears bent or flapped under the force of air and still not a single dog budged. Wilson was just about to curve his lips into a craggy smile, when seven of the dogs bolted.

“Ah!” He flapped his arms in frustration and yelled obscenities at the retreating dogs regardless of the fact he couldn’t be heard. The woman had specified she needed all of his dogs to tolerate a helicopter. She was paying him enough money for him to make sure all sixty complied.

He hobbled over to the copter, its twirling blades still pushing an excessive amount of air toward the grass. He stood next to the open door and, using hand signals, called each dog over. One at a time the dogs ran to the door, hopped into the craft and then back out again, returning to his or her place in the circle. All but those last seven who had retreated toward their kennels near the house.

By the time he’d made his way around the circle, the sun was beginning to set. He gave a thumbs-up to the helicopter pilot and limped toward the house as the craft lifted off. When he could finally hear his labored breathing instead of the thumping of the blades, he issued two short whistles to release the fifty-three dogs still sitting at attention. A cacophony of barking and yipping erupted behind him as the dogs fell into their usual happy canine frolicking.

God, he loved these animals.

His oldest and most loyal dog, Wingman, trotted up beside him. Wingman wasn’t the first dog he’d trained. Far from it, but he was currently the oldest in a long line of specially trained canines. Wingman pranced beside him, head and tail raised high, his graying black muzzle opened with a pleased grin, knowing it had been a good training day.

“We need to bring those last seven pups along, Wingman, old boy.” Wilson scratched the dog’s forehead as they walked. “Will you help me?”

Wingman’s only response was to let his tongue loll lazily out of the side of his mouth.

“How are we gonna do that?” The stooped, old man patted Wingman on the forehead before hobbling up the hill to the house. The young dogs that had deserted their post sat in a line at the top of the hill, no doubt waiting to slobber their apologies all over Wilson when he got up there.

“I’m running out of time,” Wilson huffed to himself. “How am I going to break these dogs in a week?”

Wilson thought back to the most difficult dog he’d ever trained. A hound mix with a thick skull. Nothing resembling sense made it into that noggin’. Not without a fight. He’d been about to give up on the dog completely and drop him off at the pound when a fire broke out in the kennels. That dog had employed every single trick and agility Wilson had taught him to break the rest of the dogs out of their kennels. He’d single-handedly—or single-pawedly—saved all forty-five dogs in the kennels that day. The next day the danged mutt went right back to completely ignoring commands. But anytime he was out on assignment, he was an ace performer. First dog on the scene. Fastest in the pack.

Grunting with the effort to limp uphill, Wilson eyed the line of deserters again. Maybe it was time to throw them into the fire – per se.

After feeding the dogs and performing the never-ending task of picking up poop, Wilson selected twelve dogs to spend the night in the house. He always took twelve dogs inside with him. Settled in his favorite leather armchair, with his feet propped on a footstool and his dogs reclining around him, Wilson sent a quick email to the helicopter pilot asking him to bring the Black Hawk the next day. Wilson was going to need something big.

In the morning, Wilson fed the seven troublemakers in their kennels. Twenty minutes after they ate, he let each one out so he or she could do his or her business, then put them back in their kennels. The littlest one, an American Bulldog name Trixie, was already staggering. Wilson gave her a good scratch before closing her inside. “You just take a little nap, Trix.”

He didn’t like to dope his dogs, and in a case like this kept the dosage very light. But he couldn’t have the dogs panicking and hurting themselves, so it was easiest to make sure that when things got going, they just didn’t care what was happening.

When the pilot arrived with the big Black Hawk, Wilson asked him to turn off the rotor. Once the craft was quiet, he loaded the seven kennels, occupied by drowsy dogs into the helicopter, then climbed aboard and sat next to the pilot.

“Okay, let’s take them up.”

The pilot’s mouth was pinched with concern. “You’re not gonna toss them out or anything are you?”

“No, of course not. But if we don’t get in the air before they start coming around, my plan will be ruined, so let’s get this thing up.”

The pilot handed Wilson a headset to wear. When the rotor started spinning, Wilson understood why and secured the noise canceling headphones over his ears.

The pilot’s voice was clear as a bell through them. “Looks like you’ve got some jittery ones back there.”

“Yep, but it won’t last forever,” Wilson replied.

The pilot reached over and pulled a microphone down until it sat flush with Wilson’s mouth.

“Oh, sorry ‘bout that.” Wilson chuckled and then repeated his original reply.

The pounding noise of the helicopter pulled the dogs out of their stupors. A couple dogs sat up straighter with their ears alert. Most jumped to their feet and wobbled with each shift in direction the chopper made. Whenever Wilson saw a dog bark he made the hand gesture for them to quiet. At first he must have looked like a man afflicted with palsy—his hand was flopping around so much—but eventually the dogs stopped. After a while all dogs even laid down. A few rested their chins on their paws and dozed.

Wilson turned a pleased grin on the pilot. “I think we can land again. Keep the rotor on though while I let the dogs out.”

The pilot nodded and banked toward the large grass field behind the big stone house.

Wilson let those seven dogs spend the night inside. Each dog had made him proud by jumping fearlessly out of the helicopter, retreating to the ‘circle’ and sitting at attention until he had released them long after the helicopter left.

All sixty dogs were finally ready. For what, he had no idea. His business was training special ops dogs. What people did with the dogs when they were out on contract was none of his business. As long as the dogs didn’t get hurt. Most important was that they came back alive.

Thinking of the sum of money the woman was going to hand him when she showed up made him feel twenty years old again. He cackled giddily. Wingman, who was curled next to him, sat up and rested his chin on the arm of the chair.

Scratching between the dog’s eyes, Wilson wheezed. “We’ll be able to retire, old boy. I’ll finally be able to repair this drafty old manor and still afford to feed all of you for the rest of our lives.”

Wingman huffed and licked his lip.

“You would’ve been proud of them, Winger. The seven did good work today. I threw them into the fire and they all came out of it all right. Almost as good as that old hound. You woulda liked working with him. He coulda been your general.”

Wingman sighed and lay back down again. Wilson dreamed of spending the rest of his days just like that. Him tucked under a flannel blanket, Wingman content at his side. Yep, one last gig.

Six days later, an impossibly tall, unreasonably gorgeous, young woman showed up to collect the dogs. Wilson was as impressed with her set up as he was with her. There were a dozen non-descript black vans with two handlers per van. After a short lesson in the basic hand signals, the dogs were loaded into clean kennels.

“I’ll have them returned to you by the weekend.” The young woman handed over a box filled with cash. “I put in some extra for your discretion.”

“Discretion is all a part of it girly.” Wilson all but drooled on the box. But then a burst of fear erupted inside his mind. It disappeared as quickly as it came, but it scared the day lights out of him nonetheless.

“Girly?” The girl’s voice was a lit fuse and she was the bomb. “Don’t be so derogatory.”

“Okay.” Wilson nodded. “My apologies.”

He wasn’t even sure what he was apologizing for, but the young woman was terrifying when she was angry; sharp angles and shadows and harshness. Her anger dropped away and once again she was stunning. Wilson blinked. Maybe he’d imagined the transformation.

He spent the next three days roaming around his huge, quiet house. He cleaned the kennels every day, even though he didn’t need to. He bleached the concrete pad the dogs used as a latrine, and hosed it down over and over again until even he could have eaten off of it.

He was never so happy as when the twelve black vans drove up his long driveway. He hobbled out onto the front porch and waited as the handlers let the dogs out of the vans. The dogs looked good. Healthy. Happy as ever. Except…?

Wilson lumbered down the steps, his gaze sweeping over the dogs. They were moving too fast for him to get a head count, but…

“Where’s Wingman?” he asked the nearest handler.

The man turned toward Wilson. “There were three casualties. The young lady extends her most sincere apologies and assures you she did her best to protect the dogs. They went out honorably.” He handed Wilson a large manila envelope. “Though it will not replace your dogs, the young lady hopes it will help ease your suffering.”

Within minutes, the vans rolled down his driveway and disappeared around the corner. Wilson collapsed onto the steps; tears leaking down his face, a wail of pain escaping his mouth. His fifty-seven dogs gamboling around him like a pack of puppies.

But the most important dog, his favorite dog, Wingman, was never to return again.
***

This story is a supplemental short story to Kai's Super Villain Academy series. It takes place between King of Bad and Polar Opposites. Kai will be making an exciting announcement regarding King of Bad soon. Join her mailing list so you don't miss out.

***

When her children were young and the electricity winked out, Kai Strand gathered her family around the fireplace and they told stories, one sentence at a time. Her boys were rather fond of the ending, “And then everybody died. The end.” Now an award winning children’s author, Kai crafts fiction for kids and teens to provide an escape hatch from their reality. With a selection of novels for young adult and middle grade readers and a short story blog, Lightning Quick Reads, Kai entertains children of all ages, and their adults. Learn more about Kai and her books on her website, www.kaistrand.com.

The Reluctant Hermes by Kai Strand

A dose of compassion can ruin your future.

***

Image from http://www.gaiaonline.com/ 

Creeper hovered outside the classroom, checking to make sure his skirt wasn’t caught in the waistband of his—what were they, anyway? They weren’t underwear.

Clenching his teeth against the surge of self-loathing his current employment incited, he assured both of his buns were covered by his Hermes costume and pulled open the door. Floating into the room, he heard the expected wave of  titters roll through the classroom. Heck, if he were a student in a classroom and some skirt-wearing guy with wings on his feet came floating in, he’d do more than snicker. God he missed his roots.

Though he tried to suppress his super hearing, it picked up, “Shiny gold buns. I like.” In his peripheral vision, he saw the speaker had long pink hair. Yeah, you would like.

“Can I help you?” The teacher’s frown indicated he hadn’t received a herald-gram in his classroom before.

Boy, you’re in for a treat! Creeper kept his expression blank. “I have a delivery for Sandra Tohler.”

The hot chick sitting across the aisle from the girl with pink hair gulped audibly enough for him to know she was his target. The unison turn of all the heads in the classroom in her direction, confirmed it. He floated toward her, wishing instead that he could pour on some super speed and bullet train his way off of this horrible campus. And put on some frickin’ jeans. Hell, get a job as a stocker in a grocery store. Who needed to use superpowers anyway? Since the balancing of the super heroes and super villains, he’d felt not only useless, but also pathetic.

He cleared his throat and started to recite the beyond corny message his boss had assigned him to deliver. When the girl’s head hit her desk he wanted to put her out of her misery and just leave. He overheard a kid somewhere near the front of the room whisper to his friend, “Man I would love to tap that. If this herald-gram works on her, I’ll deliver one of my own.”

Why did they never realize that plant-inspired superpowers came with super hearing?

All of Creeper’s senses automatically tuned into the miles of thick roots extending deep into the ground from the forest of pines surrounding the school. He longed to coax them into action. The memory of a particularly fun time—back before he graduated from Super Villain Academy—almost made his bored composure crack into a grin. He’d found an anonymous envelope on his pillow one morning. Inside were some cash and a note promising a second, equal installment if he used his roots to keep a particular villainess from joining in the fight that was certain to erupt in the gymnasium later that day. Good times.

More whispers from the front of the room. The jerk’s friend responded with a stupid sounding guffaw and then his high-pitched, grating voice squeaked, “You know that girl dates the nerd, right? The one who used to be a villain, but switched to our side before the balancing? She’s probably into some sick stuff.”

Creeper curled his toes inside his completely lame ankle boots. He ached to send roots up through the floor to wrap around the cocky kids at the front of the classroom and squeeze them until they popped. Then guilt oozed into him and he admonished himself for daydreaming. Root-wars were the old Creeper. The pre-balancing Creeper.

He reached the point in his oration when he needed to grow a bouquet. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a fistful of seeds. When he opened his fist he felt the eager life within each and every little capsule. New growth. The innocence of it thrilled him and slayed him, equally. He sent warmth and nourishment across his skin until it pooled in his palm. The little seeds drank greedily. He waved his free hand over the top for affect and, as the seeds began to sprout, he pretended to coax the seedlings upward with dramatic flourish, all while maintaining the flow of sustenance into his palm to encourage growth.

The sweet little lives of each flower filled him with regret. He fought against the urge to grimace as he bundled the wildflowers into a bouquet and offered them to the girl. She just stared at them. At first he wondered if she too felt the accelerated lifeline and was as horrified by it as he was. But then he recognized her far away expression and realized her horror was inspired by something else entirely.

He shoved the flowers at her, anxious to get away from them before they realized that by forcing them to grow, he’d cut their life spans short. Okay, maybe he was the only one who actually comprehended that. Flowers don’t think—they just do. They just are. But they’re filled with hope and brightness and all sorts of positive energy. Until they start to die, which this bunch would start to do any second now.

Though he wanted to throw the flowers across the room like a child throws a broken toy, he set them carefully on the desk in front of the girl. Reaching back into his pocket, he grabbed the card the sender had requested accompany the flowers and shoved it into the bunch. The girl just stared at the flowers. Her distracted state of mind pulled at his newly tender heart, knowing the flowers would die long before she appreciated them. Such a waste of the purity of their bloom time.

He shook his head and pulled himself from his maudlin thoughts. He hated this new way of thinking, but with the influx of those disgusting warm, fuzzy, hero feelings the balancing forced on him, he couldn’t help himself. He broke his stoic expression to scowl at the jerk at the back of the room eyeing his legs. The kid just lifted an eyebrow.

Pre-balancing Creeper would have wrapped a root around the guy’s waist and pounded him against the wall. Post balancing Creeper couldn’t bring himself to coax the roots to do his bidding anymore because of their feelings. No, that wasn’t quite right. He had always known plants had a sense of awareness—almost an independent will that fought against his violent instructions. He had just never cared before.

Breathing through his nose like a bull, Creeper lifted off the ground, zipped over the heads of the students and out the door. At least the assignment was hours away from the flower shop so the long journey back meant he wouldn’t have to be humiliated again for a while. Or coax more seeds into an early death. Rising high into the air, he tried not to think about lost opportunities, or the biting cold on his bare arms and legs as he leisurely made his way back to work. 
***

Creeper (and his roots) play very minor roles in Kai's books, King of Bad and her upcoming book, Super Bad. This story is the retelling of a scene from Super Bad, from Creeper's point of view. Super Bad is scheduled for release in June. You have just enough time to read books one and two in the series before the concluding book comes out!

About the author: Kai Strand writes fiction for kids and teens. Her debut novel, The Weaver, was an EPIC eBook Awards finalist. King of Bad spent eight months on the publisher's Top 5 best sellers list. As a mother of four young adults her characters are well researched and new stories are inspired daily. Kai is a compulsive walker, addicted to pizza and a Mozart fangirl. Visit her website for more information about her work and to find all her virtual haunts; www.kaistrand.com.