Excerpt and Contest – The Lost Children of Andromeda: Zosma by Jason Michael Primrose

ZOSMA IS A POWERFUL PRE-APOCALYPTIC SCIENCE FICTION STORY EXPLORING THEMES OF TRUTH, RESILIENCE, AND DIVERSITY

Zosma opens the series on Earth in 2052 A.D. as Allister Adams, a young superhuman, begins his search for the planet’s possible savior: Zosma Caster. Zosma is an intergalactic refugee and the vessel for an otherworldly energy source from the Andromeda Galaxy. The rogue organization C20 has been interested in Zosma’s power, but are its intentions entirely pure? Allister’s search for an alien becomes a search for truth as the walls, literally and figuratively, are closing in.

Zosma is the first in the series The Lost Children of Andromeda. Inspired by his personal journey of self-discovery, Jason Primrose has created a world in which even superhumans are challenged by the effects of greed, fear, and natural disasters. The apocalyptic tale explores the themes of reality vs. perception, human extinction and climate change, diversity of thought, and resilience.

https://www.lostchildrenofandromeda.com/pre-order-zosma/

Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Zosma-Children-Andromeda-Jason-Primrose/dp/1643071858/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1535552955&sr=8-1&keywords=lost+children+of+andromeda

Barnes & Noble:  https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/zosma-jason-primrose/1129430202?ean=9781643071855

Mascot Books: https://mascotbooks.com/mascot-marketplace/buy-books/fiction/science-fiction/lost-children-of-andromeda-zosma/

Read an Excerpt

Florence Belladonna

Cumberland Falls, Kentucky

The BellaDonna Corp Gulfstream jet’s engines roared, speeding up to its Mach 1 maximum.

Florence balanced on the passenger seat’s edge. “Giovanni, keep us in the air for as long as you can. I’ll make this quick.”

“Happy to assist, Dr. Belladonna. Turning on holding pattern navigation sequence,” Giovanni informed her. “Distance to Cumberland Falls, fifteen minutes.”

She scooted back and activated her telepathy, imploring Allister to concentrate on her voice. The plane’s lights and interior faded in a pink energy ripple.

Her mind catapulted into the ever-expanding collective of consciousness known as the astral plane. Any savvy telepath, any worthy telepath, accessed the realm as she’d done, with a squint and forefingers fastened to their temple or forehead. The Astral Plane lived between myth and theory, in a home built of grandiose claims and abstract descriptions. Wholly a mystery to those not plagued by or, (depending on your perspective), privileged to psionic energy manipulation.

The Astral Plane’s eternal highway stretched around and through the universe, and on its pulsing energy tarmac, thoughts going faster than the suggested speed limit of light, zipped to destinations in the waiting minds of the cosmos.

And this is where Florence came, sensing a disturbance that transcended the physical realm. To wage war against a perverse disruption to the purity of free thought, a fog settling onto lanes, causing traffic, accidents, havoc.

Allister’s subconscious beckoned. She reached her hand into negative Space, wrapped her fingers around the fabric of the macrocosm, and pulled it to her. Her astral form gained weight, depth and dimension, conjured as an energy representation of her physical attributes, and with it, she navigated to the heavy glob surrounding his mind. The atmospheric disturbance bearing down on its terrain blocked her ability to read it, to assess its viability.

Concentrate on my voice, she insisted.

Toes pointed, she plunged, racing a blackened sky to the parched grass spanning Allister’s psyche. Arms back. Elbows locked. Chin out. Her shimmering form torpedoed ahead, falling so fast the ground came to meet her. Speed had given her marginal advantage, positioned to touch down a fraction of a second before the murky mist threatening to swallow her whole. She performed a graceful airborne tumble and landed on one knee.

Mist plowed the surface, lightning struck, and wind screeched, as if a dense cumulonimbus had descended and unleashed its power.

“Dr. Belladonna,” Rabia said. His voice, deep and raspy, his body, a swarm of black bees fashioned to a man’s shape. “What an unpleasant surprise.”

“I could say the same,” she said, hands up. “Get. Out.” Psionic energy lines retraced her astral body, fortifying its presence.

“I wonder, can you fight on two planes at once?”

The cloudy, swirling mass erupted. She ducked her head; arms crossed in front of her and conjured a psychic force field. Visibility a complete stranger, she shouted for Allister inside its protection, and like a beacon, blue light penetrated the murkiness. She sprinted in its direction, hoping it meant he was somehow okay.

Stifling air’s immense pressure crushed her mental stamina. The force field, its sole purpose to deflect the mist’s brutality, flickered and cracked, striving to hold up its end of the bargain. The cloud’s thickness thinned as she battled through, and she burst free, panting and stumbling. Little Allister, valiant and irreproachable, held the madness at bay with his tiny arms pushed forward and Z-energy streaming forth.

She’d planned on taking shelter behind the gravestones of Leesa, Dolores, and Patrick, and scoured the horizon. Gone. She did a second sweep, searching for another psionic landmark.

Flat, dead terrain met her at each turn, until she found a blip bathed in the Transporter gem’s tapered light. A candidate for the safe-haven where his deepest thoughts could live.

Energy sparked on her heels, flowed up her body and set alight her fingertip. She pointed to the spot below them and by rotating her wrist, drew a circular platform.

“I… can’t fight,” he said, going from two raised hands to one. “The influence… too strong.” His legs gave way as blue light shorted out.

She caught Allister on his way to slumping face first in the grass. “Rest for now. You’ll need it.”

Rabia’s essence reared, billowing on itself like volcanic ash clouds. Her crafted transportation took off, whizzing them toward shelter faster than her own feet were allowed, even in the extended reality-warping of the subconscious.

Florence wasn’t given the leeway to perfect the platform’s levitation and balance. The sustained roar in surround sound drove her free arm’s wild swings, as she repelled tentacle attacks from all angles with energy bursts.

She checked on the eight-year-old embodiment of Allister lying unconscious at her feet, then she turned, violating the cardinal rule: don’t look back. A rule for good reason, as the abyss galloping after them had compounded. Darkness expanded to the left and right, above and below. And in her diversion from steering, it converged in the foreground to enclose them.

 

About the Author

Jason Michael Primrose has been creating alternate worlds and characters since childhood. For nearly ten years, he has used his unique storytelling gift to impact the entertainment, fashion, and tech consumer product industries. His experience spans brand strategy, creative direction, retail merchandising, and influencer/celebrity partnerships.

www.lostchildrenofandromeda.com

https://twitter.com/lostchildrenofA

https://www.instagram.com/lostchildrenofandromeda/

#zosma #lostchildrenofandromeda

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