Lynn Lamb is the bestselling author of the post-apocalyptic Survivor Diaries Series, the metaphysical-horror Opus of the Dead Series, The Oxymoron of Still Life, a Short Story Anthology, and Mechaniclism, an Apocalyptic~Horror novel.
As she began writing, she was inspired by the characters in her hometown—and John Steinbeck’s old stomping-grounds—Monterey, California. She holds a Film degree, and is a graphic designer and scriptwriter.
The Survivor Diaries explosive series, Mechaniclism’s chilling novel, and the Hot New Release, Lullaby of the Dead, have made a big bang and a scream on the literary scene.
Book Excerpts
Mechaniclism Excerpt:
The day after Ireland’s parents brought her home from the hospital, swaddled in a tidy cocoon of a pink blanket, her mother unwrapped her hard earned prize. She marveled at what her immense love for her husband had created. Pink and perfect to behold, little Ireland cried out. The new mother, startled by the sound—having never spent much time around children—picked up the fragile being with translucent skin and attempted to sooth her.
The infant’s cries became more and more urgent the more Eliza tried to calm her. She offered the baby her breast, but it was refused. The same thing happened the day before in the hospital. “Give it time,” the lactation specialist told her. “Meanwhile, she needs to be bottle fed.”
Eliza had intended to do everything in a natural way for her daughter’s health and well-being, but experienced failure at every turn. After thirty-two hours of labor without an epidural, the doctors insisted that the baby be born by caesarian section. Brian agreed and convinced Eliza to stop being stubborn for the child’s sake.
“Shh,” she repeated several times in vain.
“Hello, love,” Brian greeted his wife when he came into the bedroom. “I got the organic formula for sensitive babies as requested. You wouldn’t believe how much this stuff costs.”
Eliza looked up at Brian with desperation in her eyes. “I can’t get her to stop crying,” she told him. “The more I try, the worse she gets.”
“We talked about this before you even got pregnant. You are a perfectionist, and you can’t control a baby’s behavior. You can’t stop them from crying. Here, let me have a look at her diaper.” He kissed Eliza’s head as he bent to take the baby from her.
Eliza passed her to Brian, exhausted and frustrated. She let out a shrill cry when she saw Ireland’s bare back.
Her own hand prints on the child’s skin appeared as an angry shade of red.
Brian turned Ireland to see where Eliza’s eyes stared in terrified disbelief.
“What have you done to my child?” he roared. Brian had never spoken to her in that way, and Eliza recoiled from the shock.
“I wasn’t … I mean … I didn’t. I was holding her as carefully as I could,” she tried to explain.
Ireland was now bawling fiercely. She was in obvious physical distress, and Brian lay her on the bed cover like a fractured egg ready to spill its contents before reaching the bowl. His eyes grew wide as he saw his own large hand prints on her skin, one under her neck and the other in the center of her back.
“What’s wrong with her,” the new mother whispered in disbelief.
The cordless phone next to the bed was in Brian’s hand before he knew what he planned to do. He stared at the numbers, trying to focus his mind. “I’ll call the hospital. They told me to call if I had any questions.”
The Oxymoron of Still Life Excerpt:
The inherent danger from the blackness of the new moon was her veil. That is why it had to be that night. Comforted by the hollow sound of her footsteps on wood, she warily descended the steep, slick, narrow staircase. She left behind the safety of the last streetlight in exchange for the roar of the waves that rhythmically pounded the shore in time with her heart—slowly, yet loudly and constantly.
The dense fog would hide the glint of copper tresses. When they caught the drenched salt air, they would take on a life of their own, a reminder that there was no control over anything. The ocean was but another. Water drew her, but the ocean made its own—often deadly—decisions. Fear kept her from leaping into the freezing depths of the unrelenting undertow. She knew she was no match for its power, just as she knew that she was no match for the man.
Monte Vista Village Excerpt:
After the first hits on the East Coast, we still had television, and we saw the devastation play out in news reports. The images of the mushroom shaped clouds were indisputable. We have endured a nuclear attack. The President, who has been taken to an undisclosed location, as one would suspect would happen in an event such as this, delivered what he has called his “last public speech, indefinitely.” He went on to say that we need to rely on our local governments, and that we need to be prepared for the “inevitability of further attacks throughout the entire country,” but our local government has said very little. They alluded to the possibility of martial law but have given no instructions as to what we need to do. I think we are on our own.
The Beginning at the End of the World Excerpt:
Nature is reclaiming the earth. Since the beginning of history, no other animal that has walked this planet has had such a devastating impact. The human footprint here is now indelible.
Moving Mountains Excerpt:
And although I could really only hear the occupants of the cabin, I imagined that I could hear everyone’s cheering. With all that happened, and the forty days it took us to go no more than ninety-eight miles, we had arrived. But I would never forget that we lost two people along the way.
As the vehicle came to a stop, I could see a large, stone, two-story house. I had imagined something very different from what the compound actually looked like. The buildings were a combination of expensive and what might have been moderately priced homes. They were spaced far apart, and I could tell that they spanned several streets. I could see a ranch with horses and a variety of farm animals. It was like a mixed-up puzzle of a neighborhood. It had a little of this and a little of that. I opened the door and stepped out onto the porch with the ladies close behind. Bailey took one of my hands and Holly the other. What was coming was seven months in the making.
In front of the stone house were two lines of people, one on either side of the front steps. On one side was a formal, very straight line of people in uniforms. On the other side, there was more of a clump of people in street clothes.
Frozen Webs Excerpt:
Standing frozen in front of the man I knew had played a major role in the Last War, I tried in vain to figure out how we got to this moment. It was potentially an important one, historic even—if only for the Village—but I couldn’t wrap my mind around it. In fact, my mind drew a giant black hole. Even worse, words would not form when I opened my mouth. Instead, out came a ridiculously high-pitched squeak—mortifying!
© No part of this text may be used without prior consent from the author, Lynn Lamb.
The day after Ireland’s parents brought her home from the hospital, swaddled in a tidy cocoon of a pink blanket, her mother unwrapped her hard earned prize. She marveled at what her immense love for her husband had created. Pink and perfect to behold, little Ireland cried out. The new mother, startled by the sound—having never spent much time around children—picked up the fragile being with translucent skin and attempted to sooth her.
The infant’s cries became more and more urgent the more Eliza tried to calm her. She offered the baby her breast, but it was refused. The same thing happened the day before in the hospital. “Give it time,” the lactation specialist told her. “Meanwhile, she needs to be bottle fed.”
Eliza had intended to do everything in a natural way for her daughter’s health and well-being, but experienced failure at every turn. After thirty-two hours of labor without an epidural, the doctors insisted that the baby be born by caesarian section. Brian agreed and convinced Eliza to stop being stubborn for the child’s sake.
“Shh,” she repeated several times in vain.
“Hello, love,” Brian greeted his wife when he came into the bedroom. “I got the organic formula for sensitive babies as requested. You wouldn’t believe how much this stuff costs.”
Eliza looked up at Brian with desperation in her eyes. “I can’t get her to stop crying,” she told him. “The more I try, the worse she gets.”
“We talked about this before you even got pregnant. You are a perfectionist, and you can’t control a baby’s behavior. You can’t stop them from crying. Here, let me have a look at her diaper.” He kissed Eliza’s head as he bent to take the baby from her.
Eliza passed her to Brian, exhausted and frustrated. She let out a shrill cry when she saw Ireland’s bare back.
Her own hand prints on the child’s skin appeared as an angry shade of red.
Brian turned Ireland to see where Eliza’s eyes stared in terrified disbelief.
“What have you done to my child?” he roared. Brian had never spoken to her in that way, and Eliza recoiled from the shock.
“I wasn’t … I mean … I didn’t. I was holding her as carefully as I could,” she tried to explain.
Ireland was now bawling fiercely. She was in obvious physical distress, and Brian lay her on the bed cover like a fractured egg ready to spill its contents before reaching the bowl. His eyes grew wide as he saw his own large hand prints on her skin, one under her neck and the other in the center of her back.
“What’s wrong with her,” the new mother whispered in disbelief.
The cordless phone next to the bed was in Brian’s hand before he knew what he planned to do. He stared at the numbers, trying to focus his mind. “I’ll call the hospital. They told me to call if I had any questions.”
The Oxymoron of Still Life Excerpt:
The inherent danger from the blackness of the new moon was her veil. That is why it had to be that night. Comforted by the hollow sound of her footsteps on wood, she warily descended the steep, slick, narrow staircase. She left behind the safety of the last streetlight in exchange for the roar of the waves that rhythmically pounded the shore in time with her heart—slowly, yet loudly and constantly.
The dense fog would hide the glint of copper tresses. When they caught the drenched salt air, they would take on a life of their own, a reminder that there was no control over anything. The ocean was but another. Water drew her, but the ocean made its own—often deadly—decisions. Fear kept her from leaping into the freezing depths of the unrelenting undertow. She knew she was no match for its power, just as she knew that she was no match for the man.
Monte Vista Village Excerpt:
After the first hits on the East Coast, we still had television, and we saw the devastation play out in news reports. The images of the mushroom shaped clouds were indisputable. We have endured a nuclear attack. The President, who has been taken to an undisclosed location, as one would suspect would happen in an event such as this, delivered what he has called his “last public speech, indefinitely.” He went on to say that we need to rely on our local governments, and that we need to be prepared for the “inevitability of further attacks throughout the entire country,” but our local government has said very little. They alluded to the possibility of martial law but have given no instructions as to what we need to do. I think we are on our own.
The Beginning at the End of the World Excerpt:
Nature is reclaiming the earth. Since the beginning of history, no other animal that has walked this planet has had such a devastating impact. The human footprint here is now indelible.
Moving Mountains Excerpt:
And although I could really only hear the occupants of the cabin, I imagined that I could hear everyone’s cheering. With all that happened, and the forty days it took us to go no more than ninety-eight miles, we had arrived. But I would never forget that we lost two people along the way.
As the vehicle came to a stop, I could see a large, stone, two-story house. I had imagined something very different from what the compound actually looked like. The buildings were a combination of expensive and what might have been moderately priced homes. They were spaced far apart, and I could tell that they spanned several streets. I could see a ranch with horses and a variety of farm animals. It was like a mixed-up puzzle of a neighborhood. It had a little of this and a little of that. I opened the door and stepped out onto the porch with the ladies close behind. Bailey took one of my hands and Holly the other. What was coming was seven months in the making.
In front of the stone house were two lines of people, one on either side of the front steps. On one side was a formal, very straight line of people in uniforms. On the other side, there was more of a clump of people in street clothes.
Frozen Webs Excerpt:
Standing frozen in front of the man I knew had played a major role in the Last War, I tried in vain to figure out how we got to this moment. It was potentially an important one, historic even—if only for the Village—but I couldn’t wrap my mind around it. In fact, my mind drew a giant black hole. Even worse, words would not form when I opened my mouth. Instead, out came a ridiculously high-pitched squeak—mortifying!
© No part of this text may be used without prior consent from the author, Lynn Lamb.
© Lynn Lamb. All rights reserved, 2024.
