Synopsis

 

On the cusp of turning eighteen, it’s time for Drew Lovell to become a man.

But deep within, Drew has questions—ones he doesn’t know how to phrase—about what that means and how to go about it.

During three intense stretches between 1985 and 1993, taking him into his mid-twenties, Drew undergoes a series of profound experiences—often wild, sometimes painful, and always revealing—that force him to rethink his current assumptions. Only after nearly dying from trying to conform to conventional models of masculinity does he begin to become the man he wants to be and not the one he thought the world required him to be. Still, he’s unable to live with full integrity until interaction with a pair of awakened humans inspires new awareness that helps him at long last embrace the truth of who he is.

 

 

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Praise

 

“Kat’s Cradle is … an inquiry into the nature of consciousness, evolution, and perspective that makes Kat just one of a series of strong characters whose lives intersect in … its paradigm-changing inspection of humanity, spirituality, and forces beyond human ken.”- D. Donovan, Senior Reviewer, Midwest Book Review
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“At once thriller and search for meaning, Karuna Das’s story of an extraordinary woman’s self-discovery imagines a world of conspiracy at the edge of science where the stakes couldn’t be higher. Kat’s Cradle probes the very nature of existence and digs for answers at the intersection of medicine and mystery.”- Tom Sweterlitsch, author of The Gone World

​”Kat’s Cradle is neuropunk at its mind-bending and truly optimistic finest.”- Heidi Ruby Miller, author of the Ambasadora series

“awe-inspiring science fiction. I look forward to the next installment.”-H. Miller, Amazon Review

“Great book, with really strong female characters. It’s scifi/ fantasy and an enjoyable read!”-AS, Amazon Review

 

 

Excerpt

 

“You’ve seen gay people before, right?” asked Tina. She’d noticed me staring at two handsome, muscular, shirtless men holding hands. One’s chest was hairy; the other’s was completely smooth. With their tanned skin, they looked like golden gods.

“Not ones I knew for sure were gay,” I replied. “Some kids at school, a few teachers. People call them fags behind their backs, and sometimes even to their faces. But nobody’s ever admitted it.” I could only imagine what people would’ve said—or done—to them if they had.

As we approached a glitzy tavern, I spotted a group of tall, big-haired individuals in feminine attire congregated outside the door. One bore a remarkable likeness to Cher.

The real-life star’s film Mask had come out that spring. But this was not drug-addict-biker-mom Cher. This was skimpy-sequin-dress Cher. I couldn’t take my eyes off … her?

“Whatchu lookin’ at, little fan-man?” Not-Cher called out, prompting me to avert my gaze. “You’re cute when you blush. Pussy—I mean cat—got your tongue? Wanna ditch the bitch and come get to know a real woman?” Not-Cher smiled at Tina. “No offense, darlin’.”

“None taken,” Tina replied through a laugh as we strolled by Not-Cher and friends.

I resisted the impulse to turn my head for another look once we passed. When Tina stopped to peer into the window of an art gallery down the block, I couldn’t help sneaking a glance back.

Not-Cher blew me a kiss.

“That’s a guy,” I said. I’d definitely never seen a real, live crossdresser before.

“Yep,” Tina replied. “You like that?”

“What?” I asked. I saw she was pointing at a watercolor on display in the window. “Oh.” The image depicted a beachscape. “Sure,” I said.

“Oh!” she exclaimed, taking my hand. “Come on.”

She led me across the street to a tiny doorway barely visible between two upscale shops. According to the hand-painted, weathered sign, we were venturing into the mystic realm of a fortune teller: Tarot cards, crystal balls, and palmistry were all on offer; for a mere five dollars per reading, our destinies would be revealed.

I passed on the cards and crystal ball, preferring to learn what the alleged seer could divine about me from my own body. Madame Cherie—who resembled the female impersonator from the nightclub across the street in more than name—insisted her readings were private affairs, to be witnessed only by the subject, and never to be shared. By disclosing her findings, I now risk incurring Madame Cherie’s everlasting curse. If you believe in that sort of thing.

“Your hands are soft for a man,” she said, holding mine lightly in her own. Before I could tell her I did construction work, she let go of one and scrutinized the other.

“I’m right-handed,” I told her.

“No matter,” she replied. “On all young men, we read the left, for it shows your potential. Come back when you’re older, and we’ll read the right to see how you’ve fulfilled that promise.” She felt the palm pad at the base of my pinkie. “A well-defined Mercury mount. You’re a good communicator, with keen insight into others.”

Favorable traits for a writer. Maybe there’s some truth to this stuff, I thought.

She pressed softly on the pads below each of the other fingers, then more firmly on the fleshy mound at the base of my thumb. “A somewhat elevated Venus mount. This predisposes you to promiscuity.”

Or maybe, I thought, it’s all a bunch of malarkey.

“Now we shall read the lines,” she said. “That is, I will read the lines, and you can read between them.” She squeezed my fingers together and bent them back, spreading my palm open. “Your heart line is deep and red. You are ruled by temperament.”

“Does it say anything else?”

“About your love life?” asked Madame Cherie with a smile. “The line is long with quite a few small breaks. The possibility exists for a satisfying and lasting romantic relationship. But it’s likely you will undergo a number of traumatic experiences along the way.”

Great, I thought. As I wondered where Tina fit into that scenario, Madame Cherie said something about cross marks on my head line and my facing a series of inner crises.

“Ah! See how your fate line forks?” she asked. She pointed to a comparatively faint crease beginning at the bottom middle of my palm and soon branching apart. “That means your life could go in either of two quite different directions.”

“Can I pick which one?”

“Your decisions in key moments most certainly will influence your destiny. But you won’t necessarily be able to predict where the choices will lead.”

So much for the big revelation, I thought.

“Your life line is deep,” she said. “But not particularly long. Rather short, in fact.”

“You mean I’m going to die young?”

“For your longevity we must look elsewhere.” She rocked my hand back and forth as she eyed the base of my wrist. “Good news! You have four rascette lines. And strong ones. These here, like bracelets. Three is far more common. You could live to be a hundred years old.”

That might be a bit much, I thought, albeit with some relief.

“Because it’s also deep, the shortness of your life line is more good news. You can overcome any physical problems you may develop.” She took another look. “Hmm.”

“What?” I asked.

“You have a second life line. This often reflects extra vitality. Initially I thought it was just that. It would go hand in hand—get it?—with your propensity for longevity and health.”

“But …”

“It’s perfectly parallel to the first.”

“And …”

“This might be interpreted as a sign you’ll lead a double life. Maybe you already are.”

 

Taken from the book’s First Movement, “Cock Tales,” and the chapter “Champagne Punch,” Copyright © 2023, Kyle Andrew Bostian

 

 

Guest Review by Nora

 

“Much contemporary philosophy considers the feeling of having an independent and unified self to be an illusion. It views humans as disjointed—and often conflicting– collections of beliefs and behaviors determined entirely by our cultural conditioning, by the dominant modes of thought in our social structures. In doing so, it takes away the possibility of free will or any real agency.”

There is nothing that unifies us as human beings so much as the search for who we really are. We’re born as one thing, grow into a sense of identity for a brief time, and then when we reach adolescence; we spend many years thereafter trying to figure out who, exactly, we are.

This is the situation that young Drew Lovell finds himself in when on the edge of teenager-hood he begins questioning his identity and sexuality. Being teased by his friends for not having yet had sex, Drew flippantly loses his virginity in a way that he finds unsatisfying. This first sexual experience does not dim his love for women, and he goes through his teenage years having as much sex as possible and also engaging in copious drug use.

Though he finds love as an adult, he also goes through heartbreak and the loss of several close friends. After having a seizure that nearly ends his life, Drew realizes that he must change something in his life and begins writing a memoir. The end of the book is very much about Drew’s final destination, despite him still being a very young man. But spiritual enlightenment can happen at any age, and it just so happens that Drew’s comes at an age when he still has most of his life ahead of him.

An authentic story that serves as both a fictionalized memoir and a coming-of-age novel, ‘Sex, Drugs, and Spiritual Enlightenment (but mostly the first two),’ is a rollicking read that you won’t soon forget! I know I definitely won’t!

 

 

About the Author

 

Karuna Das is the pen and spirit name of Kyle Bostian. Born in Wisconsin, he grew up in Massachusetts and now resides in Pennsylvania, but he lives wherever he happens to be at that moment and feels at home everywhere in the universe. He holds a BA in English and an MFA in Playwriting. In addition to his dramatic writing, he’s published the sci-fi novel Kat’s Cradle, as well as short fiction, creative nonfiction, and poetry. He and his life partner Ti share their house with five wonderfully wacky cats.

 

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