About The Book:
Title: Somewhere Between Water and Sky
Series: Shattered Things #2
Author: Elora Ramirez
Cover Design: Sarah Hansen of Okay Creations
Release Date: September 18, 2014
I heard it said once that every human is a story with skin.If this is true, paragraphs would be etched in the scars on my wrists.
Whole chapters could be written about the way my heart pounds when I startle awake.
And every single one of my tears could fill a book.
But stories, with all their promise, only leave room for disappointment. I don’t have room for that anymore. I left it all—the hope, the love, the promise—back in my old life with the ghosts I’d rather forget: Jude. Emma. Pacey.
Kevin.
This is how I dare to move forward and to believe in a new beginning. I let go of the old. I just grab the new and run. I don’t wait around anymore. I can’t.
Waiting leaves room for the voices.
Somewhere between water and sky, I'll find a way to burn these voices to the ground.
Excerpt:
Poet guy is just finishing up a piece when we arrive at his table. He looks up and smiles, handing us each a sheet of paper.
“These were fun to write. I’m glad you stopped by today. I was having a bit of a block with some of the other words.”
Jessa returns the smile and takes her paper. I grab mine from his other hand and read the words. My poem is short, but packs the punch of a thousand decibels.
My heart is a golden burning
reaching toward the wild unknown
of longing.
Liberty? Freedom?
Perhaps maybe one day—when the darkness
closes around me and the night
hides even the brightest of prayer.
Until then, my heart is a golden burning,
reaching toward the wild unknown.
I look up from my paper, eyes blinking furiously to keep the tears from falling.
“This is beautiful.”
Jessa grunts her agreement. “Listen to mine.” Her voice fills the silence around us, melodic and falling into rhythm immediately. My eyes flicker to the poet and he has his eyes closed—a faint smile gracing his lips.
What does an emotion sound like
when it cracks and burns?
The faded hope left unwanted
and buried in the heap of dreams
jangling from the wolf’s mouth.
What does it sound like when
Fear grows feral and snarls quick
and fierce, snapping at love in the
jagged way of grief ripping
at wounds?
What does an emotion sound like
when it believes in the fairy tale—
swooning and gorging on the fields
too empty to roam?
Maybe it sounds like the rat-tat-tat
of the keys when typing or the
slap-clap-slap of the haka warrior
banging on his knees
Or maybe it’s just a whisper,
quiet on the breeze.
She clears her throat and blinks away the tears collecting within her own eyes as she glances up and offers the poet a slight shake of her head. Placing her hand on her heart, she whispers quietly.
“This is perfect. I mean it.”
She sniffs and wipes at her cheeks.
“Do you have any work up at the Poetry House?”
His eyes light up and he slaps his knees.
“I do! I don’t know very many people who know about that place. You go there often?”
“It’s my boyfriend’s favorite spot. He likes to take me there for inspiration in song writing. What’s your name? I’ll try and look for your stuff next time we’re there.”
“My name’s Fitzgerald. You’ll note the poems by the Fitz at the end.”
Jessa looks at me. “The Poetry House is this place where poetry is written on the walls. Every once in a while there will be a concert there or some type of massive pot-luck picnic. It’s an abandoned building. Total antithesis of what we saw the other day. Every time I go it leaves me breathless.”
I nod. It’s really the only thing I can do, my mind still stuck on the words of these poems and the ache billowing inside.
“Anyway.” Jessa folds her paper and sticks it in her purse, giving Fitz a slight wave before turning away. “You ready to head home?”
“Yeah.”
I swallow. Put one foot in front of the other. My heart is a golden burning on repeat like the worst kind of broken record vibrating against my bones.
“These were fun to write. I’m glad you stopped by today. I was having a bit of a block with some of the other words.”
Jessa returns the smile and takes her paper. I grab mine from his other hand and read the words. My poem is short, but packs the punch of a thousand decibels.
My heart is a golden burning
reaching toward the wild unknown
of longing.
Liberty? Freedom?
Perhaps maybe one day—when the darkness
closes around me and the night
hides even the brightest of prayer.
Until then, my heart is a golden burning,
reaching toward the wild unknown.
I look up from my paper, eyes blinking furiously to keep the tears from falling.
“This is beautiful.”
Jessa grunts her agreement. “Listen to mine.” Her voice fills the silence around us, melodic and falling into rhythm immediately. My eyes flicker to the poet and he has his eyes closed—a faint smile gracing his lips.
What does an emotion sound like
when it cracks and burns?
The faded hope left unwanted
and buried in the heap of dreams
jangling from the wolf’s mouth.
What does it sound like when
Fear grows feral and snarls quick
and fierce, snapping at love in the
jagged way of grief ripping
at wounds?
What does an emotion sound like
when it believes in the fairy tale—
swooning and gorging on the fields
too empty to roam?
Maybe it sounds like the rat-tat-tat
of the keys when typing or the
slap-clap-slap of the haka warrior
banging on his knees
Or maybe it’s just a whisper,
quiet on the breeze.
She clears her throat and blinks away the tears collecting within her own eyes as she glances up and offers the poet a slight shake of her head. Placing her hand on her heart, she whispers quietly.
“This is perfect. I mean it.”
She sniffs and wipes at her cheeks.
“Do you have any work up at the Poetry House?”
His eyes light up and he slaps his knees.
“I do! I don’t know very many people who know about that place. You go there often?”
“It’s my boyfriend’s favorite spot. He likes to take me there for inspiration in song writing. What’s your name? I’ll try and look for your stuff next time we’re there.”
“My name’s Fitzgerald. You’ll note the poems by the Fitz at the end.”
Jessa looks at me. “The Poetry House is this place where poetry is written on the walls. Every once in a while there will be a concert there or some type of massive pot-luck picnic. It’s an abandoned building. Total antithesis of what we saw the other day. Every time I go it leaves me breathless.”
I nod. It’s really the only thing I can do, my mind still stuck on the words of these poems and the ache billowing inside.
“Anyway.” Jessa folds her paper and sticks it in her purse, giving Fitz a slight wave before turning away. “You ready to head home?”
“Yeah.”
I swallow. Put one foot in front of the other. My heart is a golden burning on repeat like the worst kind of broken record vibrating against my bones.
About The Author:
Elora Ramirez lives in Austin, Texas with her chef-husband. At the age of four, she taught herself how to read and write, cutting her teeth on books like Dr. Seuss and writing anywhere she could find the space--including her Fisher Price kitchen set, the pages of picture books and Highlights Magazine. Since then, she's grown to love the way words feel as they swell within her bones. Writing holy and broken is her calling, and pushing back the darkness and pursuing beauty through story is her purpose. She embraces the power of story and teaches women from all parts of the world how to embrace theirs. She has a knack of calling things out , the truth and the detail, the subversive threads that make a life a story. She loves hip-hop, wishes she lived by the beach and cannot write without copious amounts of coffee, chocolate, music, and her husband's lavender liqueur. 
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