Geoff O'Brien

The active-minded author

Better Together

Available for purchase in ebook formats from Amazon or everywhere else. Print format coming soon. I also have an FAQ page for this novel.


During school holidays, twelve year old Frida is asked by a boy to play rugby league on his team. She can’t believe it. Didn’t everyone know that she was a type 1 diabetic? No one ever picked her for sports, much less rugby league - only boys played that. Encouraged by her father, she accepts the boy’s offer and has a try. To her surprise, she ends up having fun.

Frida wants to play more, but that’s tough. She gasps for breath after running for a few seconds. Exercising makes her blood glucose levels erratic. What’s worse is hardly anyone seems to care. Her mother thinks rugby league is too rough for a girl. Her best friend is annoyed, because it’s only stupid sports. The big girls on the team say Frida is too small. Oddly, Frida seems to be the only one worried about her diabetic condition.

Nah, none of that matters. Frida only wants to have fun. She’s ready to try something different. What’s wrong with that?

Yet everything isn’t about Frida. Rugby league is a team sport. She must understand how to fit in and play with her teammates - especially the surly girl she dislikes so much. The only way Frida will win is to learn how to respect her and earn respect in return.

That goes for the other boys and girls on the team, too. Somehow, they each have to put aside what they want and don’t want. The only way the team will win is to learn how to become better, together.

Win-Win For The Win!


Better Together banner


Chapter 1 - Potential Energy

Chapter 2 - Nice Try     Chapter 3 - Trains and Conductors     Chapter 4 - Hover Mode     Top ⬆⬆⬆     Home

Needles didn’t scare Frida Osthen. Nor did the drop of her own blood on her finger freak her out. She sighed as she set down her glucose meter. Her blood glucose level—sometimes called blood sugar level—was a bit high.
     No. She didn’t like needles for a different reason: they were tedious.
     She wiped the drop of blood from her finger and picked up a special pen, attaching the needle to the plastic bit at the end of the pen.
     Insulin pumps were okay. Those were handheld devices that people could “plug” into themselves using a small rubber tube with a needle at the end. The device itself contained insulin to regularly dose its wearer. Wearing an insulin pump was better in some ways, but that routine also became tedious.
     She had to wear an insulin pump or use needles every day. Every single day, for the rest of her life.
     Last year, she’d been diagnosed with type 1 diabetes. The doctor had told Frida her body could never again make its own insulin, the way everyone else’s body did. She had to inject insulin by using pens or wearing a pump. Without insulin, her body couldn’t use the energy, glucose, from food and drink. If her blood glucose became too high, or too low, she would suffer from symptoms like dizziness, becoming weak, fainting … or worse.
     All that once frightened her. Now any scary thoughts about diabetes had been worn away by the daily drudgery of injections and checking her glucose. Now she did these things because they were routine. She did these things so she wouldn’t be hassled by a parent or a teacher.
     Holding her pen ready, Frida double-checked her injection site using a nearby floor-to-ceiling mirror. Seeing herself was an unpleasant reminder of how small she was. She had recently turned twelve. Hopefully, she would start growing soon. Her eyes were a welcoming amber colour, at least. She wondered whether they offset her hair or skin, both being different hues of an earthy brown. A medical bracelet encircled one of her wrists.
     Cold metal pricked Frida’s skin, making her twitch. She’d forgotten about holding the needle, now drooping in her slackening grip. She usually wore an insulin pump at all times, except during school holidays, like now, when she wanted a break from it. Whenever she did wear it, it would be covered by her shirt. The device would clip onto the waist of her pants. A small tube came out from the device. The tube had a needle attached to insert into her skin, usually at her side, near the hip. The pump automatically dosed her with a small amount of insulin every few hours. That was more convenient than having to stop whatever she was doing and inject herself throughout the day.
     Wearing a pump all the time did become tedious in different ways though. She had to be careful not to dislodge it or knock it around. She had to take it off to do certain activities, like swimming. During holidays, ditching the pump liberated her from its constant presence for a few days. The discomfort and sting of injections were a small price to pay for that.
     After Frida injected herself, she replaced the needle pen in its case. Her father’s flat was empty, and private. She stepped outside.
     The sun was setting, almost touching the horizon. Trees and houses cast long shadows. As it was January, the mellow sunlight wouldn’t disappear entirely for another hour or so. The apartment building where Dad lived was empty. He and his friends were across the road, sitting around a local sports field. Children were yelling and running around on neat and tidy grass.
     Close to the edge of the field, Dad and three of his neighbours were talking, sipping from bottles. Other small groups of people were placed around the field’s boundaries. Frida recognised some from around the neighbourhood. A haggard dog with patchy fur and floppy ears snoozed on the grass.
     A chubby man in Dad’s group spoke, shaking his head. “Mate of mine told me his boy will be playing in a mixed team this year.”
     “Mixed?” a thinner man asked. “What does that mean?”
     “Means girls can play too,” said an elderly woman with bleached-white hair.
     “Bloody bizarre,” the chubby man muttered. “Girls aren’t meant to play rugby league.”
     The woman laughed. “What are they meant to do, then?”
     “You know what I mean.”
     “Do you?” she pressed.
     “Give the man a break,” the thin man said. “He’s been fixing up his car all day.”
     The woman shrugged away the reprimand. “Just curious.”
     “Hey, pint-size,” Dad said to Frida. His skin was a bolder shade of hers. His body was big and strong, the same way he looked when he used to play rugby league. “What’s happening?”
     “When is Mum coming to pick me up?”
     “She called back while you were inside. She’ll be here in a couple hours.”
     “Okay.” Trying not to show her relief, Frida added, “Thanks.” She loved him, but there wasn’t much to do at his place, or when she accompanied him to work.
     “Ayyy,” the chubby man drawled. “It’s little Frida! How are ya, girl?”
     “Good thanks, Rob.”
     “Play any sports, eh?”
     “Rob!” Dad protested.
     “Not really,” Frida said.
     Rob’s impressive belly wiggled as he turned to the others. “There. See?”
     “Twit,” the elderly woman said casually. “Don’t worry about it, Frida. Just a bunch of grumpy old men around here.”
     “Okay, Vicky,” Frida said to be polite.
     “And a grumpy old hag,” Rob retorted with a chuckle.
     Vicky shrugged. “Can’t argue with that. Oh yes,” she said, apparently remembering something. “Frida, thanks for helping me out with Facebook earlier. Now my great-nephew has friend … ed …?” She stumbled over the unfamiliar wording. “You know what I mean.”
     “Not a problem. It was easy.”
     Vicky scoffed. “Sure, it is … if you’re young.”
     The thin man patted a chair beside him. “Pull up a stump, Frida. Barely seen you all holidays.” Once Frida sat beside him, he asked, “How old are you now?”
     “Twelve.”
     “A few days ago,” Dad added.
     Everyone exclaimed she was growing up, asking her about how she was doing at school. Frida nodded and replied in all the right places. Listening to Dad and his friends talking wasn’t her favourite thing to do, but at least she wasn’t sitting around in Dad’s empty flat.
     “Wanna play?” said a boy’s voice from close by.
     Frida looked away to see a tall and thin indigenous boy waiting. Waiting for whom? “Do you mean me?” she asked.
     “No, the dog,” the boy said sarcastically. One floppy ear raised up, then drooped back down to the grass.
     “Warra,” Dad scolded. “Apologise.”
     “Sor-ry,” the boy—Warra—said automatically. “Well? You wanna play or what? My team is one short. There’s no one else.” He elbowed the chubby man. “Unless we put Big Rob at fullback and kick to him all the time. Make him run.”
     Everyone laughed, including Rob. Frida hardly noticed. She was small. Plus everyone knew she was a diabetic, didn’t they? No one ever picked her.
     “Go on, Frida,” Dad encouraged. “You’ll be fine.”
     If he said so …


Chapter 2 - Nice Try

Chapter 1 - Potential Energy     Chapter 3 - Trains and Conductors     Chapter 4 - Hover Mode     Top ⬆⬆⬆     Home

Frida started walking, taking short steps. Warra, seeing she was coming, turned around and jogged back towards the middle of the field, where the game had already resumed.
     Frida heard Vicky’s voice behind her. “What about that, then?”
     A loud raspberry. Then Rob said, “That’s not real. They’re only mucking around. Not playing to win a premiership, are they?”
     On the field, a burly indigenous girl with short black curls was running with a football. A boy from the other team charged at her, dropping his head and shoulders at the last second to tackle her around her waist. Frida could hear the burly girl release an “Oof”; then she seemed to fold in half as the boy drove her backwards. She hit the ground with the flat of her back, with him on top.
     Was that girl all right? Frida felt the impact through the ground. Alarmed, she increased her pace. The boy eased himself back, releasing the girl. He said something with a wry smile. The girl laughed and jumped up, either not hurt or not showing it. She gave him a friendly shove, then dropped the ball to the ground. Using her foot, she rolled it backwards for another boy standing behind her, who picked it up and passed it to one of their teammates.
     Frida hesitated. They were playing rugby league, the same game Dad used to play until he got injured. Rugby league was tough. It was physical. Sometimes it was violent. Players might start a fight. Girls didn’t play rugby league, boys did.
     On the field, the big girl was jogging forward with her teammates, shouting something to whoever was carrying the ball. That girl was playing. She seemed okay. She must be tough though, to be tackled like that and not get hurt. Frida wasn’t that tough. She was shorter than that girl, skinnier.
     Closer to Frida, Warra was walking with a few boys, all of them keeping pace with the rest of the team, who were trailing behind whoever was running with the ball. “Played much league?” he asked.
     Frida matched her pace to theirs. “Not really.”
     “That’s all right. If they pass the ball our way, one of us guys will hit it up.” Whatever that meant.
     “Okay,” Frida said, as if she understood.
     For the next play, the ball was passed to someone closer to them. Then it was passed again. The boys beside Warra tensed, getting ready to act as the ball came ever closer. “Stay beside me,” Warra told her. The ball reached one of Warra’s friends, who sped up once he caught it. The others increased their pace, including Frida.
     Warra, looking constantly between his teammates and the kids in front of him, pointed towards the sideline and ordered, “Go out there. I’ll put you in the clear.”
     Frida wasn’t sure whether he meant her. She drifted towards the edge of the field anyway. The kids opposite them focused on Warra, ignoring her. When he received the ball, he exploded forward. Frida thought he meant to run straight through them, or over them. Instead, he passed the ball just before impact, not looking away from the defenders. The ball floated, spinning through the air, colliding with Frida. Bringing her arms into her body, she managed to secure the football against her chest.
     “Kick it!” someone yelled, so she did, letting go of the football and trying to swing her leg at it. The ball didn’t fire away from her foot as she expected. Instead, it bounced awkwardly off her shin and dribbled along the ground towards the other team.
     This brought a chorus of groans from everyone on her side of the field. Kids on the other team howled with delight.
     Warra yelled, “What did you do that for?” He and someone else ran past to tackle a boy from the other team picking up the ball.
     “You guys told me to,” Frida objected. “No, we didn’t,” Warra said as he backed up to stand beside Frida. “They did. To fool you into giving up the ball.”
     “Oh.” Her head dropped. She tried not to listen to the sarcastic comments from the kids on the other team, calling out their thanks. After they progressed through several tackles, they had to kick the ball back.
     Now that her teammates had the ball again, they wouldn’t pass it to her. For a few sets of tackles, Frida didn’t touch the ball once. She felt invisible and exposed at the same time. Her teammates didn’t want to see her, but everyone else did. They were probably wondering why she was standing around out there, doing nothing amongst the chaos. Maybe she should quietly walk away, leave them to it. She doubted they would miss her.
     Her team had possession of the ball again. They kept staying away from her side of the field. On the last play, Warra was dodging and weaving opposition players, forced to roam towards her side. Desperate to avoid being tackled, he passed the ball to a disbelieving Frida. With two of the other team’s players focused on tackling him, there was only one boy from their side moving towards her. His big, expressive eyes, black hair and bronze skin made him look Middle Eastern.
     “Kick it!” someone yelled.
     Frida held on to the ball. She wouldn’t be fooled this time.
     “Run!” her teammates screamed.
     Frida ran as though her life depended on it, determined to make up for her error. The Middle Eastern boy loomed in front of her. She stepped to one side. He tried to move in the same direction, too late, swinging out a desperate arm. His hand whacked her cheek, making it tingle. He didn’t stop her. Stumbling past him, she regained her balance. Two adults sitting close by cheered.
     Where was out of bounds? Where the adults were, probably. Nobody else was in front of her. Frida’s legs pumped up and down. Where was the opposition? Two more kids from the other team were haring across the field. The thrill of the chase increased her speed.
     They weren’t quick enough. Frida arrived at the other end of the field, where the goalposts stood. She trotted to a gasping halt past the crossbar, trying to catch her breath. Her pursuers were decelerating, giving up on the chase.
     “Put the ball down!” Dad called.
     Whoops, she’d forgotten about that. She flopped onto the ground with the football under her chest, the way she’d seen others do it. This produced another round of cheers. The adults ringing the field were clapping, shouting, laughing with their neighbours. Frida smiled around at them, stretching her stinging cheek. She barely felt it.
     This was fun!


Chapter 3 - Trains and Conductors

Chapter 1 - Potential Energy     Chapter 2 - Nice Try     Chapter 4 - Hover Mode     Top ⬆⬆⬆     Home

After the sun dropped below the horizon, everyone was standing or moving around tables loaded with barbequed meat patties, sausages and chopped salad. However, Frida was considering the boxes of pizza. Should she have a slice? Presented with a pile of pizza, she felt like a browser at a jewellery shop. She wanted it all, yet she couldn’t have any.
     She always had to keep careful track of what she ate. Pizza would raise a person’s blood glucose more than meats or vegetables would. This wasn’t too bad for Frida if she had an injection of insulin before or afterwards. If she didn’t have an injection, or she ate too much pizza anyway, bad things could happen.
     Frida had first been diagnosed with type 1 diabetes a year ago. Dr Caden, a Certified Diabetes Educator, or CDE, had explained it to her. “Insulin is very important. Imagine a train with passengers. It arrives at the station, where people are waiting. What do you think would happen next?”
     The question seemed so simple that Frida wondered whether it was a trap. “Uh, the doors open and people get on or off the train?”
     “Good answer,” the doctor replied. “That’s what usually happens. For fun, let’s imagine a particular scenario. Let’s imagine these people can’t move on and off the train, because the doors aren’t open. The doors aren’t open, because the conductors inside the train haven’t opened them yet.”
     “Why not?”
     “Maybe the conductors are lazy. Maybe they’re busy checking their phones. Soon enough, they realise the train has stopped, so they hit the button to open the doors. The people waiting outside now come in. The doors close and the train leaves, taking the people where they need to go.” Dr Caden raised a forefinger to get Frida’s attention. “Now, let’s imagine a different scenario. Let’s say the conductors of the train decide to take the day off. They don’t report to work. An empty train, without its conductors, arrives at the station, where people are waiting. The doors remain closed. What happens next?”
     “Nothing,” Frida guessed. “The people can’t get on or off. They’re locked out. There’s no one to push the button to open the doors.”
     “Exactly. The doors stay closed. The train leaves, as empty as it was when it arrived. The people are still waiting.”
     “What about the driver? Or someone else? Couldn’t they help the people waiting? Or maybe the doors are automatic.”
     “In the real world, yes. Those are good ideas. However, in our particular scenario, let’s stay focused on the conductors and passengers, please.”
     Frida nodded. “Okay.”
     “So, hopefully, you understand how important these conductors are. If, for whatever reason, they can’t push the button, then people can’t get on the train. They can’t go to work, or school, or see their friends. The train stations and train tracks would clog up with people. Everything would soon stop working.”
     Frida asked, “What does this have to do with me?”
     Dr Caden said, “Something very much the same happens with type one diabetes.”
     “How?”
     “All the blood in our bodies is like the train. It travels all around our bodies, making stops to the heart, to the brain, all our organs and muscles … It goes everywhere.” Dr Caden held up a finger. “To keep this simple, let’s say the first place your blood goes is to the pancreas. The pancreas helps you digest food. It’s located here.” She pointed to the upper part of Frida’s stomach.
     “The pang-cree-aas?” Frida echoed, trying to pronounce the word. “Why does blood go there?”
     “To retrieve insulin. Insulin is like the conductors.”
     Frida was beginning to understand. “Insulin lives in the pang-cree-aas?”
     “Insulin is made in a normal pancreas,” Dr Caden said, “like mine. We’ll get to yours in a moment.” After Frida nodded, Dr Caden said, “Let’s imagine I have eaten something. Any kind of food at all. Ice cream, for example. The ice cream, like any food or drink besides water, gets digested in my stomach and small intestine, breaking it down into different things. One of those things is called glucose. Glucose is a fuel that our bodies use to function, to do anything at all, so it’s very important. Think of glucose as being like the people at the train station.”
     “Okay” was all Frida said, trying to concentrate.
     “Hang in there. We’re almost finished. The blood in our bodies is like the train. The blood travels all around our bodies to pick up and drop off glucose. Each cell uses insulin as a ‘conductor’ that opens the cell, allowing glucose to get in and out.”
     “So,” Frida said, trying to make sense of it, “insulin is made in the pang-creas. Then insulin travels around with our blood. The blood and insulin together pick up glucose and drop it off everywhere else, so everything in our bodies keeps working.”
     “That’s how everything works in my body,” Dr Caden said, “and for most others.” She leaned forward. “Not yours.”
     “Not mine?” Frida asked. “Why?”
     “Because for some reason, your immune system destroyed the part of your pancreas that makes insulin,” Dr Caden said softly. “That’s known as ‘autoimmunity’.”
     “Why? How does that happen?”
     “I don’t know. Sorry. Nobody does.”
     “Is my pang-creas broken?” “Not quite. It still does a lot of things. But now,” Dr Caden said softly, “it can’t make insulin. Not ever. That is what type one diabetes means. Your pancreas can’t make any insulin. No insulin means glucose can’t get into your cells. Your blood can’t deliver glucose to other parts of your body, and the glucose just hangs around in your blood. Under these conditions, our bodies begin to shut down. Other bad things can happen.”
     Frida shivered. “Does this mean I’ll … shut down?”
     Dr Caden patted her on the shoulder. “It won’t be like that for you, Frida, I promise. There are only two things you have to do. First, you must learn to be careful about what you eat, and when. Second, you have to inject some insulin into your body a few times a day. Once you learn those things, you’ll be back to normal, just like everyone else.”
     One of the doctor’s words pricked her mind like a barb. “Inject? You mean, like, with a needle?”
     “I’m afraid so. There are other options, such as wearing an insulin pump.” Dr Caden shook her head sadly. “I understand how difficult this news must be for you. It’s quite possible to live, to thrive, with type one diabetes, but it requires some changes for you. Try not to worry. Once I explain everything to you and your parents, we can all work together to make this as simple and easy for you as possible.”
     For most people, the pancreas could make enough insulin to use glucose properly. It happened normally, automatically, without having to think or worry about it.
     Not for Frida. Not for anyone with type 1 diabetes.
     The doctor explained to Frida that type 2 diabetes was similar, yet different. People with type 2 diabetes could make insulin; they just couldn’t use it very well. Type 2 could be reversed or “cured”, whereas no cure existed for type 1.
     The platter of pizza beckoned. Unable to resist any longer, Frida snatched up a slice. One slice shouldn’t be a problem.
     A woman wearing a dress with flowers on it stepped up beside her, picking up a slice. “Good try, girl,” she said. “Do you play league?”
     “Only today.”
     “Should think about it. You’re quick.” She walked away to join some others.
     Frida stayed close to the pizza table, because there were only a few slices of the cheese pizza left. In passing, other adults praised her scoring the try. She couldn’t resist a second slice. She was fantasising about a third when she saw a white SUV out on the road, slowing to a stop.
     Mum had arrived.


Chapter 4 - Hover Mode

Chapter 1 - Potential Energy     Chapter 2 - Nice Try     Chapter 3 - Trains and Conductors     Top ⬆⬆⬆     Home

Gina Futerro stepped out of the SUV. Frida’s mother was lean and athletic. Her cropped brunette hair, simple blouse and faded jeans made her look as casual as anyone at the barbeque. Her proud posture and determined stride set her apart.
     Coming to a halt beside Frida, Mum frowned. Crouching, she took hold of Frida’s head. “Your cheek,” she fussed, twisting Frida’s head for a better view in the dim light. “What happened?”
     “Nothing,” Frida said casually, trying to twist her head away.
     “Don’t try to brush it off. It’s obviously something, or I wouldn’t be able to see—Kamen Osthen,” she said when Dad approached. “What happened to Frida’s cheek?”
     “It’s all right, Gina,” Dad said as he approached, limping slightly, as he usually did. “Some kid tapped her on the way past is all.”
     “Tapped? It looks worse than—” Mum stopped talking to compose herself. “Frida, go back to your father’s flat and get your things.” She looked around at the barbeque banquet. “Have you eaten much? Have you had a corrective injection?”
     “Yes, Mum, I’ve had two slices of pizza. And I was about to have an injection.”
     “Off you go, then. I’ll catch up as soon as I’ve had a chat with your father.”
     Frida made to leave, then doubled back to approach her parents from the far side, obscured by the leaves and branches of a eucalyptus tree.
     “… out of your mind?” Mum was saying. “Frida could have been injured. She could have had an episode!”
     “Gina, I understand the risks. Frida’s fine. She’s a capable girl. She’s got diabetes, not brittle bones. She won’t break if she plays sports.”
     “I’m fine with her playing sports, Kamen. Not a contact sport. Did you see her cheek?”
     “Bloody hell, it’s only a small bruise. Nothing serious. It’s barely noticeable.”
     “It could have been a lot worse.”
     “And it could have been fine,” he said louder, then gasped in sarcastic astonishment. “And what do you know? It was.”
     “This time.”
     “Steve Renouf played rugby league with type one diabetes, you know. He was part of a premiership-winning team and played for his state and country.”
     “Steve Renouf probably had friends, family and teammates to help him manage his condition, not a bunch of guys sitting around.”
     “That’s below the belt, Gina.”
     Frida heard a sigh, then Mum saying, “I’m sorry. You’re right. I shouldn’t have said that.” Her tone hardened. “You know what I mean. What if something serious had happened?”
     Patiently he said, “And what if it hadn’t? You know, the way things happen usually.”
     “Which is exactly my point. Usually. Not always.”
     He sighed. “Give it a rest, already.”
     “Anyway, since when do girls play rugby league?”
     “Women and girls playing rugby league is a thing. Kids play in mixed-gender sides up to Frida’s age.”
     Silence. Then Mum said, “I didn’t know that.”
     “Learn something new every day,” Dad mumbled.
     “That we agree on. Is Frida ready to go?”
     “Give her five minutes. Knowing her, there’ll be some last-minute packing. You want a burger?”
     Frida crept away when they started discussing how she’d been behaving over the holidays. She wished that she hadn’t texted Mum about picking her up early. How was Frida to know what would happen this afternoon? As she packed up her things, she wondered whether she could leave tomorrow instead.
     When Mum arrived at Dad’s flat, Frida asked her.
     “After you texted me, pleading to go? Why the change of heart?”
     Frida adjusted her backpack. “I was really having fun just now. We all might play another game.”
     Mum pushed a thumb and forefinger against her nose. “First your father,” she said. “Now this.” She dropped her hand. “You asked me to come; here I am. I had to swap shifts with someone to come out this afternoon. I’ll be going in tomorrow morning to cover for him in return.” Gently she asked. “Would you still like to have a go on the helo simulator?”
     “Ooh, yes, please,” Frida said. She had forgotten about that.
     Mum smiled. “I’m glad. There will be hardly anyone at the hangar tomorrow except for you and me.”
     During the drive home, Mum asked, “How were the holidays with your father?”
     “Okay, I guess,” Frida said, pulling at her seat belt. Except for today, her time with Dad could get boring. Whenever he went to work as a boilermaker, Frida had to tag along; otherwise, Mum would freak out. She didn’t like the idea of Frida being alone for long, because of her diabetes. Dad’s job involved working with steel, so Frida had to stay in the office, where there wasn’t much to do except play with her phone, or the secretary’s computer during lunch break.
     Long ago Dad had suffered a career-ending injury playing reserve-grade rugby league. Since then he had worked at various jobs here and there. Frida usually lived with her mother. During the holidays, she would spend time with her father.
     The SUV was slowing down. Mum steered them into a familiar driveway. “Home sweet home.”



...

These are the first four chapters from Better Together, the first novel in the Win-Win For the Win series. Copyright (c) Geoff O'Brien, 2019.

Top ⬆⬆⬆     Home

Better Together

Better Together front cover

A twelve year old girl with type 1 diabetes wants to play sport, but she has problems. Her diabetic routine must change. She’s horribly unfit. Her mother forbids it. Most of her team don’t care or dislike her. Winning the odd game would be nice.
Oh, and the sport is rugby league.


First book in the Win-Win For the Win series.

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Next sci-fi novel

(A sci-fi novel - Book one in a trilogy)

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2nd draft/1st edit: 40%
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Siren Plays Zeperno

Siren Plays Zeperno front cover

A deaf teenage girl and her mostly hard of hearing friends learn to play an online digital card-collectible game with a pro-disability esthetic called Zeperno. Despite trolls and well-meaning parents, they soon hone their skills enough to compete in esports.

Standalone novel.

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About me



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