A Little Bit of R&R: New Release & Excerpt: Lighthouse Nights by Jake Vander Ark

Jules and Trevor take advantage of potential suicide victims by encouraging them and profiting off their deaths. When Jules falls in love with their seventh target, she’s forced to make a series of life-or-death decisions and a single, impossible change.

Lighthouse Nights is a frightening novel about haunting regret, maniacal hatred, the longing to create, and ultimate redemption. This fast-paced story is as touching as it is twisted, and highlights a disturbing new trend among American teens

gabe’s faculty critic was younger than he anticipated--african-american, sweater-vest, glasses pressing dents into his nose and cheekbones--”welcome to the art institute” were the only words he spoke while actually looking gabe in the eyes.

“thanks,” he said and took a seat.
the man opened gabe’s portfolio with casual ineptitude as if he was thumbing insurance forms instead of a boy’s lifeblood. “tell me about yourself,” he said.
this was it! “well, i’m eighteen years old and dying to finish my senior year of high school. i live about three hours north, in grand harbor, michigan. before i could even talk, my parents found me doodling.”
the man seemed to be fully engaged with the portfolio. “go on,” he said without looking up.
“well, the art institute is my dream school. it’s the only college i applied to because, honestly, nothing else compares. i’m currently enrolled in a summer photography class--”
“tell me something real.”
“i’m sorry?”
“tell me something real,” the professor repeated.
gabe’s brain became liquid and seeped from his forehead pores. his ribs trapped a dozen seagulls in his chest and their beating feathers tickled his heart.
breathe through your nose, gabe, he told himself. you’ve got this.
“your technical proficiency is the best i’ve seen today.”
“thank you,” gabe said.
“but i don’t see anything new in your work.”
“i--”
“where do you stand politically, gabriel?”
“i don’t--”
“what are your thoughts on organized religion?”
“sir, i--”
“what excites you? what frightens you? what turns you on? what can you show me that i haven’t seen fifty times today, other than skilled use of a pen?”
gabe’s throat swelled.
“i think you’re a romantic, gabriel.”
“what does that mean?”
“do you feel prepared for daily critiques?”
he nodded. “i do.”
“then retort.”
“i’m sorry?”
“where’s your anger? why aren’t you throwing your hands in the air, telling me i’m full of shit for thinking a photorealistic drawing of a dog catching a frisbee belongs in a hospital waiting room?”
gabe’s leg bounced. if he didn’t think of something fast--
the man flipped backward through the pages, then closed the portfolio altogether. he folded his hands, placed them on gabe’s work like a twisted headstone, and looked up for the first time. “there’s nothing in here to disturb the soul in the slightest. i would recommend taking a few years to develop a unique worldview. run away from home, get stoned, lose your sentimental outlook... and we’ll reconsider your application next year.”
shit.

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