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Maze  — ebook copy  (link takes you to

In a modern day American city, there are those who track and hunt down humans for their fear. They are indiscernible from you and me. This is the story of Ame, an unusual girl with a tendency to fall for all the wrong ones. Her abduction was foretold by the voices in her head. She has the same light in her eyes that marks them. She wants only to capture your fear… and maybe your heart.

In this sequel to Katya Mills’ urban fantasy, Daughter of Darkness, Ame has fallen in love with a young man who shares the dark gift. He skateboards into her life and they roam the streets together. Conflicted by her own violent nature, she has become nevertheless intoxicated by the ways. She thirsts after ‘the tangy energetic’. A death dealer of a different kind prowls around the boarding house where Ame and her boyfriend live. Meanwhile her best friend, Bless, vies for her attention.

Hendrix, a bloodhound for tracking fear, inadvertently leads Ame to Kell, a kindred spirit in the grips of a terrible addiction. She takes her little sister with green eyes under her wing. Just as Ame seems to have found her rhythm in the chaos surrounds her, someone very close to her disappears. In her search for her loved one she uncovers a secret, revealed on the tapes of a security camera, which threatens to uproot her, once again.



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Katya W. Mills

8 three

i am constituted of methods mistaken for madness by those who believe so strongly in ideas they have fixed to a chain in the backyard. we are not made up of thoughts of us. they can cuss you out to kingdom come. cursing’s what they made of. go and live your life. I am constituted of good will and fire in the belly for a creative compelling outcome, manufacturing something rare of high quality…


hopefully worthwhile.


-kwm. 2018


two in eight and eight of two
got tossed up and turned
a few. 1982

gimme some
rolling off the tongue

you got me an
i got you
dollars turn to

music fills the hall
a powder white

soon the smiling dancing
do not care falls off
the face

what a way
to go

eight one

one in eight and eight of one
lives in shadows
of the sun

where all is of a hue
translucent eggplant blue

and songbirds whistle

encased in film
and glue


befalls you
each morning
when you
come to

slap your face
drink your dreary coffee

eat twice as much

still you lack
cut yourself
no slack

assembly line of life
wants you back

don’t go


give yourself a


a lavender mud mask

write a book

count all your pennies

shout Foucault to the rooftops


leave us your history

of madness


bipolar. foaming

life and all its head aching

dull like old world
war weaponry
under glass

twist the cork to
the pop

bubbles burst over West Hollywood
neurotransmitters desperate
to breathe

out the dizzy head

the flutes
fighting for air

now i can do anything i
can write a book i
can read a book i
can call ten hundred acquaintances
make them friends
make them family i
can be anyone i
ecstatic applause
then static

ina drought

life and all its head aching

dull like old world
war weapons
under glass

twist the cork

bubbles burst over Hollywood
neurotransmitters desperate
to breathe

out the dizzy heads
gasping i

fighting for air i
in the gutter
below the booths

ecstatic applause
then static

underwater i
ina drought i am
perspiring i

shouting and calling

the flutes spill over
and over with

laughing and screaming
screaming and i

and i

the flutes spill over
and over with


yet trapped beneath
the truth

trying to see through
stepped on

into a gel

rolls out the socket

on to the pavement


shaking like a molly

warped by



i woulda died for clarity

squished my sides for the truth

beneath a rubber


then the voices

you could find her
predawn by
the old covered

she moved like a shadow

in the less than


a world of silence
in her head

overtook you by the duck pond
in the lily pad bed

the light
then traversed
the sky

only the pond
remained dark with her

holding her
and the night

then the voices
began to bubble
anaerobic from the depths

the cry to stop
then the aeroplane
the cry for help

an orchestra of crickets
picked up where
they left

you can find her
predawn by
the old covered

that’s where she died
where she


most rock stars walk the memory back to the days when every concert was hard pressed and hard won, when they knew personally every groupie and went afterpartying with the club, fresh cuts on their lips they themselves had opened. when gigs were dive bars, audiences unpredictable if not hostile, and pay came in the form of an open tab. when a station wagon full of amps needed a jump. simple luxuries on the road. a bitter loaf of bread. one after one night stand. a pan full of eggs and bacon. walls dressed in hard wood. the percolating coffee pot to happy, ringing ears. crazy laughter and rolling eyes.  what just happened and did it, really? most rock stars dream of such beginnings. wishing they could cut their teeth on it again but no. alas, another sold out show. play the hits, play the hits! otherwise you risk sounding like you lost your edge. don’t break us in on new material, god, please don’t make us suffer so… they do. somewhere, under the belly of the rainbow disappeared, through the gold-plated bars of today’s high hung song bird cage. awash in stale hits. buried in mountains of paperwork. feeding the hungry custody of ex-wives. studying the tax codes. dining with didbits and divorce lawyers. oh, how a dream can turn back on itself.


all the forms brought all

their shadows upon the parks

and fountains


the forms themselves rarely

crossed the line unless




weather systems forced them

to huddle together and



they did so



for the shadows of the forms

made new cities


so heavy

were they


the homeless

lived there

on a currency of wine

and blankets


in the forms shadows