Tag Archives: Thriller

Suicide Jack Chapter 1

Chapter one of a completed novel that my agent wasn’t so enthusiastic about. I think it has some appeal though, what about you?

1

There’s classical music playing. This is Richard Landry’s first thought as his senses come back to him. Everything is dark, but his ears key in on the sound, which at first seems far away but then drifts closer.

Piano, he thinks. Someone is playing piano, and they’re damn good. He sees it in his mind, a pair of hands dancing over the keys, producing the notes in perfect rhythm. Richard almost feels himself swaying to the tune.

Then his cognition reboots.

Where am I?

He was going home, wasn’t he? He had put his keys in the door and opened it, stepped inside then…

Blackness.

And now, classical music.

His head aches, and he feels the pain pulsating from the crown of his skull. He tries to move and finds he can’t; his arms, legs, and body strapped down. He’s tied to a chair, or something similar.

What the hell? he thinks. He’d been too incoherent to understand the gravity of the situation before, but now the possibilities race to him.

Richard opens his eyes.

The beauty of the room before him is the first thing to catch his attention, a regal sort of elegance infused into the foyer. The floors are shiny, perhaps marble, and are a decorative royal pattern. There are two large antique mirrors on either side of the far wall, followed by a series of paintings, classical portraits and baroque market scenes. A crimson red Berber carpet directs his eyes to the staircase to his right, where it ascends the stairs and guides visitors to the second floor.

The music stops playing.

Richard looks towards the grand piano, where a figure is seated, wearing a sleek charcoal gray suit. The man stands up and speaks in a voice that is silky smooth, but void of emotion.

“Your hands are dirty, Richard.”

Richard looks down. He’s strapped to a heavy chair by a series of belts. He gazes at his hands.

They aren’t there.

Richard stares down in disbelief. Each of his arms now ends in a stump, stitched closed where his hands are supposed to be.

“Oh my god!” Richard screams.

“That was Rachmaninoff’s Number 2 in C Minor, in case you were wondering,” the man says. “Pardon me taking liberties with my interpretation, I must admit I rarely play pieces exactly as they are written.”

“Holy shit!” Richard screams. “Where are my hands? You took my hands!” He thrashes in his restraints.

“Relax, Richard,” the man assures, his voice even.  He reaches inside either side of his coat and pulls out two objects as he approaches. The man tosses the two items into Richard’s lap, and after a short bounce they settle into place.

Richard lets out a cry and bucks his hips upward, launching the hands from his body. They tumble to the floor with a thud. “Help! Someone help me!” he sobs, throwing his body as hard as he can in each direction.

“No, no, no,” the man says as he places a butterfly knife to Richard’s throat. “If you cannot behave yourself, we’ll have to make this encounter short.”

Richard stifles his cry, his body going rigid. The man looms over him and for the first time Richard looks at his face.

His eyes, Richard thinks. They are blue, icy blue, but so faded in color it is as if they don’t exist at all. They are pale, faraway, detached, yet in the moment, so intently focused on him.

“Wh-what do you want?” Richard croaks. “Please, let me go. I won’t tell anyone about this.”

The man laughs. It has the vocal quality of a laugh but lacks the human element. “Detective Landry, this was about you and your dirty hands,” the man explains. “Taking bribes to misplace evidence? Selling drugs that had been confiscated to make your own side profit? Rather audacious of someone who is supposed to protect and serve the public.”

“I’ll stop!” Richard gasps. “That’s all it is? I’ll stop. I’ll give you the profits. I’ll give you any amount of money you want!”

“Tsk, tsk, tsk,” the man says, shaking his head. The blade digs into Richard’s flesh just slightly. “This isn’t about money, Detective Landry, this is about principle! What gave you the right to act in such a manner, to be above the laws you enforce on others? Do you think your job gives you that sort of power?”

“What?” Richard asks. “No, I just…I just needed more money.”

“Needed?” the man asks, grinding the blade into Richard’s skin. A trickle of blood zig-zags its way down his neck.

“Wanted!” Richard gasps. “I wanted it. And now you can take it from me. All of it!”  

The man is shaking his head again. “You acted as if there would be no repercussions. As if you had an inherent right to do as you did. I’m not here to make you change your ways, detective, and I’m not here for a cut of your money.”

“Wh-what are you here for?” Richard asks.

The man smiles and it’s the most horrifying thing Richard has ever seen. “Call me an agent of truth,” the man explains. “I’m here to show you that there’s really only one type of power in the world.”

“What do you…” Richard began before letting out a wet choke.

The man drags the blade across Richard’s throat, slitting it. Richard’s head falls forward and the world begins turning dark again. He spits up blood and shakes violently, and just before the world fades away, he processes one last thing.

The man has started playing the piano again.

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Imitates Art Chapters 3 and 4

Chapters 3 and 4 of the latest work in progress. Refer to the last post for the beginning. Let me know what you think!

                                                                              3

The words jar me from my own homicidal fantasy. The class looks to me with a sort of bored impatience, part of their minds wanting to have the basic questions answered but another part wanting to leave and get to whatever social event they have planned. I shoot a look to Gary, who, after my hand slam upon his desk is at his fullest attention, before walking to my desk and seizing the stack of syllabi. I pass one to the gentleman in the front row and they circulate around the class.

Losing one’s self in fantasies can be an effective way for an author to immerse himself in his craft. By imagining what I could do to Gary and the hysterical fallout that would follow, I become closer to my character, Thomas. By experiencing such a vivid fantasy, I can aptly describe such a scene in my book, shocking the readers and drawing them in further as they question what such an unstable character may do next.

Despite this course being pure research on my end, I’ve put effort in to make Writing for Commercial Publication a worthwhile seminar. I will cover the how to’s of the writing industry, including submissions to literary magazines, the ins and outs of writer’s groups, landing an agent for literary representation, etcetera, before getting to the actual process of writing. The students will be working on various short story assignments with peer editors, however the bulk of the course’s grade will come from a single capstone project, a fifty page sample of a novel or story they will be writing.

A few students linger as I dismiss the class early, though most of them gather up their supplies and hurry out. Two of the lingerers ask more questions about the syllabus and I put on a friendly face and answer them. Once they’re gone, there’s one student left in the classroom, studying me up and down, the smallest of smiles creasing her face.

It’s Melody Brooks.

“Should I call you Professor White or Dorian?” she asks. “I figure a famous author like yourself has an affinity for his namesake.”

“Let’s go with professor, and keep it formal for now,” I say.

Her face crinkles up in a smile. She’s of average height, thin but with subtle curves. Her face is soft in an angelic sort of way, with eyes matching the color and depth of her mahogany hair.

“I took this class because I saw you were teaching it,” Melody says. “I have to admit, you’re my favorite author, and by a long shot.”

“Why thank you,” I say. “That means alot to me, I try to really impact my audience.”

I stare at this beautiful young fan and wonder if my character would have an attraction to her. To her taut body and lovely features, her witty personality and fine taste in literature. Thomas would be cantankerous certainly, but he’d present well, being charming and alluring enough to catch a young woman’s eye.  He’d let her in, let her close, but then when she saw too much…

Well, you get the idea.

“You certainly make an impact,” Melody says. “In Step Ahead, I was floored by the twist! The fact that Detective Brannigan was so obsessed with finding the killer, that his entire career was staked on it, and it turned out to be him all along. It dazzled me that you were able to present such a disturbed character with a split personality so effectively.”

“It was really meant to show the duality of our nature. That we can be so driven to be one person while simultaneously hiding from who we really are, even though the evidence was there all along.”

Melody tilts her head. “That’s exactly what I took away from it. The duality of our nature, the traumas we’ve suffered through refusing to be buried away, coming out in such stark ways. I think anyone who has a bit of darkness in them can relate.”

“You’re far too kind,” I say. “My critics certainly don’t agree with you. It’s nice to hear what I do is resonating with some people.”

“Pardon my language but your critics are talking out of their asses,” Melody says. “When I saw that you were teaching a course my heart fluttered. You’re definitely my favorite author. Wow, I bet I sound like a giddy school girl.”

“That’s just being human,” I say, patting her shoulder. “We all have people we’re fans of, myself included. And who knows, maybe after this, I’ll be a fan of your writing.”

Melody blushes and shakes her head. “I’m more of a reader than a writer,” she confesses. “I have some interesting ideas, especially inspired from what I read, but while it all looks good on my head it just…”

“Doesn’t come out,” I finish.

“Exactly. I love what I think but hate what comes out.”

I explain to Melody that many talented authors hate what comes out in their first draft. The ideas may be there but the execution is lacking. The difference between good and great writers is the time they put into their craft. Like exercise, routine and repetition is key, and the more one writes and edits, the better the future results are.

King said the first million words are just practice, after all.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Melody says. “And I’ll keep practicing, though I have to admit,” she looks down, “I’m a little nervous to have you see my work. Having your idol review what you come up with? Daunting to say the least.”

Little things like Melody looking away, blushing, deflecting a compliment, they all say something about her without actually explicitly saying anything. Sometimes, the most subtle movement, gesture, or observation can illuminate a character more than their direct thoughts and feelings can.

This is called showing instead of telling.

“Don’t be worried,” I say. “This is about growth, about improvement, and every student in here will have room to do that. Why don’t you drop by my office during office hours tomorrow and we’ll talk about your ideas for the course? Stories, goals, ambitions, and then see how we can help you out.”

“Yes!” Melody says. “That would be wonderful, thank you so much!”

“Just trying to embrace my role as a professor,” I say. “Plus, I have plenty of time for such a wonderful fan.”

Melody beams. “Sounds great, I’m looking forward to it, and this course.”

We walk towards the door together and I speak lightly.

“Oh, so am I, Melody, so am I.”

 

4

I sit in my office and stare out the window, a light mist drizzling down from a milky gray sky, pattering my window with dots of rain. It’s a breezy fall afternoon, thick layers of clouds blanketing downtown Drayton in a scene many would describe as dreary but one that I find serene. The view is limited, encompassing only the sides of a few buildings, but is pleasant enough, with a view of the street below, abound with students hurriedly crossing en route to their next destination.

My office is small, boxy, but with enough room for a bookcase stocked with some classics, the works of Dostoyevsky and Poe mingling with more contemporaries such as Palahniuk, Vonnegut, and King. Besides that it is relatively bare, a small plant on my desk and my diploma hung up on the wall, giving the office some semblance of authenticity.

I think about Melody Brooks and find it convenient that she wandered into my life on the first day of class. I jot down notes of how she can fit into my story, potential roles for her to fill during my time at the university. From protege to lover, the options seem ripe with possibility, all worthwhile research to be incorporated into my masterpiece.

Notes and outlines are important to some writers in order to provide a framework, a sense of organization for the entire novel. By laying out plot lines and character development, the author can layer what happens and present the story in an intriguing, intentional manner. By listing Melody’s character traits (attractive, creative, bright, fan of dark novels) I can realistically portray her, creating a believable character progression, especially if/when her weaknesses (naivete, amourous) are exploited, pulling her into a nightmarish situation right out of her favorite books.

It’s almost too good to be true.

I’m laying out how she may be roped into all this, scrawling notes in every direction, when I’m interrupted by the sound of my office door opening and someone stepping inside.

I look up as the interloper closes the door behind him. He stands with a firm yet amused look on his face, blue eyes dancing with a condescending sort of mischief behind his wire-frame glasses. His salt-and pepper mustache is thick, matching in color with his hair, and proudly stands above his lips as bold statement against all things fashionable and attractive.

“Dr. John Halstrom, what a pleasant surprise,” I say.

“Dorian White, I must say, I never expected to see you back here,” Halstrom says with an irritating grin.

“All thanks to your tutelage,” I shoot back. His expression barely creases.

“I always thought it would be Sam Hamilton who’d hit it big in writing,” Halstrom says. “You remember how vivid and detailed his short stories were, and he was a hit with the campus literary magazine. He’s just an editor of a small online magazine now, but look at you. Just goes to show how fickle the public is. Never can quite tell what suits their tastes.”

Apparently good ol’ John hasn’t changed a bit since he was my professor for three courses during my time at the university. As crass as he is dim-witted, John Halstrom is the type who believes his Ph.D in literature means he has the utmost authority in declaring what writing is good and which is trash. He held that air of superiority throughout my time as his student, putting down my work at every possible turn. He ridiculed my dark voice as being edgy for edgy’s sake. He said my work lacked substance and authenticity, that my style was too minimal, my writing was mostly choppy, and he called my tendency to throw in single line paragraphs gimmicky, attention-grabbing at best.

The audacity.

“I’ve been fortunate,” I say. “Readers were eager for a new dark voice, one that spoke to what lurks in the inner recesses of their minds. It’s going well, I almost can’t believe how far I’ve come since I was a clueless kid sitting in your class. How have you been? Has your writing worked out at all?”

Halstrom’s face scrunches up in a way that makes him look like he’s trying to eat his own mustache. His voice is gruff yet wet, like someone recovering from a long standing cold. “Oh, it’s going well enough. A few pieces published here and there, you know, I’ve built quite a name for myself with my short stories, particularly those in the fantasy genre. Even a few award nominations. The public, as you know, isn’t always ready for true work, actual artistry, and often accepts whatever recycled trash the big publishers throw at them.”

Halstrom is bitter because he’s never been able to break into the big time, despite his repeated attempts at publishing novels through the Big Five publishers. He’s published two through small indie presses, but both were panned by readers, hosting pitiful reviews on Amazon. The man writes like an academic, as if there’s a defined system and structure to a good novel.

He leaves out the soul.

“Glad to hear you’re finding your own sort of success, professor,” I say. “The writing world is truly a struggle. Do you have an agent? I could help you out with that, put in a good word.”

Color rises in Halstrom’s face. “Oh, no need. I haven’t tried in a while but I’m sure once I finish my next project I’ll have a few interested.”

In order to land a novel with mainstream publishers an author needs to acquire a literary agent. Major publishers will not review a manuscript that does not have representation. By sending out a query letter (usually two-hundred and fifty words summarizing the novel and your literary accomplishments) an author earns the right to wait anywhere from one day to one year for a response, at which point the agent will review a sample of the work or the full book itself. After another few months to a year, the agent may offer representation. Then, once submitted, if the book is accepted by an editor, it can be another one to three years before it is released to the public.

Halstrom hasn’t landed an agent.

99% of those who try don’t.

“I’m sure you’ll find your success,” I lie. “How are you holding things together at the university? I imagine the English program is top-notch, as always.”

“We have standards here,” Halstrom says. “Which is why I’m surprised they were so eager to bring a B student on board. I recommended to the chair that we didn’t hire you. I figured you were only in it for yourself.”

I laugh and shake my head. “Are you holding grudges, John? Because I told you off a few times back when I was a student? Because I followed my dreams? I understand your hesitancy to bring me aboard, especially with the content of what I write, but you can’t decry my qualifications.”

Halstrom laughs, a nasally tone carried by condescension. “Your writing is inauthentic. There’s no meat to it, just whatever gross, heinous thing your mind can create on a whim. It doesn’t feel real, it doesn’t feel deep, yet with your shocking subject matter and freshman level philosophy you’ve ensnared the attention of the nation.”

I walk over to Halstrom offering my hand. When he looks at it I kick his leg out from under him and he falls forward, bashing his head off the corner of my desk. The wet thunk that emanates sends thrilling sensations throughout my body. I grab him by the shirt collar and scruff of the neck, and as he lets out cry I drive his head into desk again. Blood oozes from his gash onto the desk, dripping down to the floor. Halstrom’s cry is shallow as I pull him back and slam his head into the corner again. The sound is wet and thick, like a pumpkin slammed to pavement.

This is called a simile.

I bash his head again.

Then again.

As the splats rise in volume his cries diminish. Soon all I hear is wet thumping with the occasional crack splintered in. Fluid drips from his head down onto my hand, coating it in a sticky mess. His head goes concave and rubbery bits of brain leak out of his skull and onto the floor.

I bash his head again.

Then again.

This is called repetition.

I drop his limp form to the floor. He collapses in a heap, and I feel a sense of vindication. The lowly maggot who had criticized me has been put in his place. He found out just where he belonged before I asserted my power over him.

Yes, this is exactly what a psychopath would think.

I make note to add this type of scene to my book.

“I’ll take that as a challenge, John,” I say, breaking from the daydream. “I will rise to the occasion and show my students can take away something meaningful from this.”  

Halstrom chortles. “Now you’re really writing fiction. But if you need to know how these sort of things are done, let me know. Assignments, grading rubrics, guest speakers, I know the ropes and I can help make sure the course is done professionally.”

I smile. “Actually, that sounds great. I’ll make a list of things I need shortly. I appreciate the help.”

Halstrom’s eyes are narrow slits in his bowling ball head. “Of course. I’ll be around, keeping an eye on you if need something.”

“Thanks John. If you’re free we should catch up more, get coffee sometime.”

Halstrom nods before turning to take his leave. “Yeah, possibly,” he mumbles as he shuffles towards the door.

“Bye,” I say, and he closes the door behind him.

The fantasy has inspired me to write Halstrom as a character. In a transgressive novel, where the main character is an anti-hero, an antagonist can be used to help the reader sympathize with the main character. This type of person is rude, dismissive, and overly assuming with few or no redeemable traits.

I spend another twenty minutes finishing my notes about him and Melody. Both will add great layers of depth to my story and I’m satisfied with the progress. I’m really beginning to flesh things out, and when I grab my materials to leave for the day, a smile adorns my face.

As I’m exiting St. Thomas Hall, I feel a strange sensation wash over me. Call it Deja Vu, but a preliminary sense, like I’m already experiencing the impending storm. I know something is going to happen, something big, yet I am already going through it. I’m going somewhere, and it’s dark and wild, unexplored and uninhabited. I shake the feeling off as I exit, but make a note not to forget the strange sensation.

Inspiration can come from anywhere, after all.

 

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Imitates Art first Two Chapters

Beginning of a new project perhaps to be shopped by my agent soon. Thoughts? Suggestions? Good jokes?

                                                                            1

By the end of this story I will either be dead or imprisoned for the rest of my natural life.

And I’ll deserve it, too.

There will be no injustice, simply consequences for the atrocities I have committed. Things that are heinous. Things that are vile.

Unspeakable, even.  

Some claim that all writing is autobiographical. That, to a degree, everything the author writes comes from experience, whether it be a character, place, story, or observation. This book is autobiographical in that sense.

But also another.

We think of autobiographies as creative works spawned from a lived life, but what if the inverse is also be true? Perhaps sometimes, it is the art that creates the artist.  

Art is what makes us human, after all. Without our imagination, our ability to create alternate realities, we’re just the same as any other animal. Miring in simplicity, there would only be the mundane, with existential suffering the sole respite.

Art is what sets us free.

It keeps us entertained. Inspired. Fulfilled. It provides us purpose and individuality. Identity. It even allows artists to live beyond their physical years.

Everyone wants that taste of immortality.

Even if it’s a knock-off brand.

I may die for my expression. Others already have. Their bodies have been butchered, mutilated; the savagery an intricate detail of a beautiful process. In death they have become a part of something so much more magnificent. Once this production is completed, regardless of the consequences, it will all be worth it. Every horrific thing I’ve done will be absolutely worth it.

There is no art without sacrifice, after all.

 

                                                                              2

She’s looking at me amorously, lashes fluttering as she bats her eyelids up and down in an intentionally slow motion. Her eyes are locked onto me, honed in on every movement, waiting for every word, but she looks dazed, in a dream-like state.

It’s the type of look you’re flattered to receive but ashamed to enjoy.

I stand in front of the class and wonder what the hell I’m doing here. Tall and skinny, my suit billows around me, wafting with every motion, somehow the correct size and baggy at the same time. My tie is too tight, so much so that it feels like I’m choking, and my glasses just won’t seem to stay on straight.

What am I doing here?

Sure, I had signed on to adjunct this course. Yes, it was research for the next novel, and of course I had a lesson plan for the class…

But I’m no professor.

Even as Melody Brooks, the curvy brunette Junior stares at me, plugging me into her hot for teacher fantasy, I do not fit the role of professor. I did not go through a rigorous Ph.D program; I’ve never taught a course in my life.

I’m just a writer.

A New York Times Bestseller of transgressive fiction, gory and grotesque works at that, but a writer of books all the same. If you tear away the titles, labels, the fanfare, we’re all just human deep down.

Well, most of us.

I walk back and forth in front of the classroom, surveying the bored and distant faces of my students. I am surprised to see that they look incredibly young. I’m barely in my thirties but this crowd looks wide-eyed and babyfaced. I’m supposed to feel out of place, intimidated even, but the sight before me eases my woes.  

“Write what you know” is a principle nugget of wisdom used by many writers. Fiction is more engaging and authentic when it’s been seasoned by real thoughts and experiences. My latest novel is about a college professor, Thomas Murrow, a stuffy pompous type from a privileged background. He’s been a refined egghead all of his life, and currently is residing in his ivory tower, but soon something else rises to the surface.

Something savage.

My last two books, while commercially successful, have been panned by critics as hollow, inaccessible, inauthentic, and too sparse. They say the books lack a “genuine voice.” Thus, I contacted my alma mater, the University of Drayton. I offered to adjunct a course, one per semester, nothing intensive, just a way to dip my feet in and experience the life of a professor.

I write a phrase on the whiteboard, a light thumping noise echoing throughout the room as I construct the letters, underlining the phrase when I am finished. There are fifteen students in my class, and I will attempt to learn the names of a handful, the types that distinguish themselves as memorable.

If life was a book, would you be a named character?

Would you be mentioned at all?

“The first line of a novel is the most important,” I read the words in a cliffhanger tone. I survey the sea of faces in the classroom, each staring to me in one of two ways. A few are interested, leaning forward, lips pursed together and brows furrowed. A majority of the students choose the second option, vaguely glancing my way with glazed, glossed over eyes; attention as a mere formality.

I pace back and forth. I stare at the faces with an air of challenge to my expression.

The first line is the most important in a novel because it’s the baited hook. It’s what captures the reader or lets them slip away. People won’t read stories that don’t interest them, that don’t speak to them right away, so it’s imperative to begin the book with an intriguing message or description.

The students stare at me. One lets out a yawn.

While the hook is very important, it is nothing without some line to keep reeling the reader in. If the hook is followed by fluff, unnecessary description and needlessly long words, it’s practically literary masturbation.

Is that writing done for the audience or the author?

A student snickers at the word masturbation used in an academic setting. The metaphor catches the attention of a few of them, whose eyes shoot open in surprise.

A student raises her hand. She’s a blond and reveals her name to be Leah. She asks me, in a soft and timid tone, if any writer can truly create art. If the practice is not purely subjective.

Postmodernism at its finest.

I tell her that art is certainly subjective, as everything is, but within subjectivity is a form of consensus, a type of hive mind if you will, where certain techniques and works strike a chord with an array of hearts, truly touching humanity. In this way, the artist has engrained themselves within the viewer in a meaningful way, changing their perspective or outlook, in their own sense, becoming part of the viewer.

A good book never leaves us, after all.

The girl appears unconvinced but nods, biting her lip and not following up her question. It’s a topic we will get to in time, and I make a mental note of Leah’s name. She may prove herself worthy enough to end up in a book one day.

I scan the room and see that some students have offered me their attention, however, there are others who still slack. In particular, the scruffy kid in the second row, who taps away at his phone while barely bothering to hide it. His hair is oily and greasy, draping down in limp curls over his pudgy face. If I were pressed to describe him in one of my books, I’d call him doughy and forgettable.

I remove a pen from my shirt pocket and walk over to him, twirling it in my fingers. The smile on my face is warm, soft, and welcoming; the type of look one would reserve for an old friend. I slam my hand down upon his desk and he jumps.

He looks up at me, face lit with surprise, and opens his mouth to apologize, a harebrained excuse en route just as I cut him off.

By stabbing him in the throat with my pen.

This is called a tonal shift.

I drive the fountain pen (solid metal and with the finest of ink, no expense spared) into the zit-pocked nape of his neck. He lets out a stunted cry, the sound of violin strings snapping, as I sever his jugular. The screams of his classmates rise around me in a chorus.

I seize hold of his shoulder, fingers digging into his shirt, and rip the pen from his neck. A rush of blood sprays out, a line of it shooting across the aisle and dousing another student. She cries out and falls from her desk to the floor, wiping her face like a maniac.

The student (Gary, I believe his name is) lets out a wet choke and slaps my arms away. He falls from his seat to the floor but I’m upon him, standing over him as I drive the pen down, piercing his throat again. I grab hold of him, continually stabbing him with the pen, the side of his face and neck turning into a punctured jelly doughnut.

I stare down at the frantic, dying man, and think about how this is an excellent teaching moment for my class.

A central challenge of writing transgressive fiction is balancing the descriptions of violence and gore to the point where they are effective yet not too gratuitous as to push the reader away. For example, I could describe how, through the mutilated mess of Gary’s neck muscles, I can see his ravaged artery flapping as blood squirts out of it. While this detail would be powerful to describe the pure intensity of the scene and truly convey the utter savagery of my action, it would be ill-advised since it borders on the grotesque, a move that would simply be gore for gore’s sake.

Gary flops around like a fish out of water, splashing in the blood pooled around him, leaving streaky hand and shoe prints on the floor. His face is a torn and ragged palate. I take a moment to appreciate just how much damage I’ve done with a simple writing instrument.

The pen is mightier than the sword, after all.

The students are shrieking. Gary’s breaths are shallow. He looks to me, his eyes glazed and listless, a bubble of blood caught on his lips. His complexion is pallor, his ghostly white skin staunchly juxtaposed by the dark puddle growing around him. I stand over him, leaning down for our final exchange.

“Use of technology for social media purposes in class is expressly forbidden,” I say.

Gary stares at me.

I drive the pen into his eye and erase Gary from existence. His body jolts before going rigid. A final wheeze of air slips out from his lips before he exits the world.  

I stare down at my body. My hands and suit are stained with blood, My hair is wild with gore. I must look like some kind of psychopath.

I clear my throat, regain my composure, and turn to face the rest of the class.

“Now it’s time to cover the syllabus,” I announce.

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Harbinger – Sample Chapter

Here is a sample chapter of my upcoming horror novel, Harbinger, soon to be released through Hobbes End Publishing. Like it on Facebook for continual updates and special contests! https://www.facebook.com/harbingerdavebright

13

         Andrew Murphy was a pyromaniac. There was no way to smooth it over,to sweeten it up, or to avoid the fact in any way.

      Of course, Andrew had never looked at his “problem” in the way everyone else had. He never felt there was something wrong with his appreciation for the almighty flame. On the contrary, he viewed himself as the only true appreciator of such a fine art.

Short, frail, red headed, blue eyed, and freckle covered, Andrew wasn’t an imposing form. He didn’t strike those he met as threatening or even capable of being threatening.

But they did not understand what lied beneath.

Andrew had started playing with fire when he was five years old. He took his father’s matchbook and within a handful of minutes most of his toys were up in a blaze in the middle of his bedroom. The fire subsequently spread to his carpet, and then the curtains—if it hadn’t been for the quick actions of his father, armed with a fire extinguisher, the whole house would have ended up in flames

Glorious, glorious flames.

There had been a number of incidents in the eight years since, most of which went unnoticed or were covered up by Andrew’s parents.

The Murphys couldn’t have a child with problems. After all, Janice Murphy’s sister had children who were prodigies, one an all-state gymnast, and the other who had taken up three instruments by the age of eight. Janice Murphy couldn’t be known as having a freak for a son.

So the solution for the Murphys was not to acknowledge any problem. Andrew was curious, as many little boys were, and he liked fire, but with all the explosions in the movies now-a-days, what little boy didn’t?

The Murphys would slap Andrew on the hand when necessary, but for the sake of their own image they never made a scene about any one of Andrew’s spats and, fortunately for them, he had never done anything big enough to attract attention to the family.

That, however, was quickly going to change. For despite what his family knew about his condition, there was still a great deal they did not know about Andrew Michael Murphy.

He was also a sociopath.

Andrew had never been an expressive boy, but the Murphys figured that was because he was shy, or perhaps a bit socially awkward. They never suspected Andrew didn’t care whether they approved of him or loved him. They were unaware he didn’t fully understand these concepts. Andrew had no grasp of love, fear, or hate. Andrew only knew what Andrew knew, and what Andrew often knew was impulse.

There were things that felt good, and things that felt bad. Do things that feel good. Avoid things that feel bad.

And for Andrew, there was only one thing in the entire world that really made him smile inside. There was only one thing that could light up his blue eyes and fill him up with a warm, legitimate delight.

      Fire. Glorious fire.

Andrew had found fire had become even more fun since he hit puberty. It had always allured him, entranced him like a temptress, but as he had grown older it began to have a physical effect on him.

Fire made him erect. Fire stimulated his libido like nothing else.

He would lock himself away in his room for hours on end, lighter in one hand, penis in other, and the world was his oyster—there was absolutely no limit to the joy he could experience.

The warmth of the flame, its power, and its delicious essence was right before him and he could touch himself. He could feel the tingling sensations building up within him; he could feel his excitement rise to levels he never thought possible.

All because of fire, all because of his maiden.

If Andrew Murphy was capable of loving something, he would be considered in love with fire, but what he truly shared with the element was more so desire; a gripping need for it.

Without the exhilaration fire gave him, Andrew wouldn’t have found a point in living. Life was about doing things that felt good, and avoiding things that felt bad. Without fire life would be bleak and miserable. It would lack substance, and Andrew was convinced he would kill himself if fire was ever taken away from him.

But it was there. It would always be there.

Andrew flicked his lighter on and off in his hand, drooling as he stared at the flame in a mesmerized fashion. He was home alone, his parents had left early for work and would not be back until much later, though for some odd reason Andrew felt they would never be back at all. To most children this would be a daunting feeling, but to Andrew it was no considerable matter. If they did not come back, they did not come back; it was as simple as that.

I’d still have fire, he thought longingly.

Then he heard something that jolted him from his thoughts, something able to pull his intent gaze away from the flame.

Annnndrewwww, Annnndrewww.” The voice sounded like a whisper, but if it was possible, a deafening whisper, and it wasn’t just one voice, it was a few, or more, or thousands.

At first Andrew was confused. He was fairly certain he had not physically heard the voice but more so thought it.

Burnnnnn, Andrew. Burn it all. Burn it to the ground.” The whisper was sweet now, having the same alluring qualities as his beloved flame. Andrew looked out the window—the voice was coming from the fog.

Don’t be scared, Andrew. Come out and burn it all. No one will stop you. Burnnnn it all.”

Andrew was curious. His curiosity hinged on suspicion, but Andrew was not in the least bit frightened—he was incapable of fear.

What he was not incapable of was desire.

Andrew felt stiffness in his pants as his erection pushed against the firm confinement of his blue jeans. He wanted to listen to the voice.

The fog will turn a beautiful orange, lit up by the power and majesty of the fire. The glorious fire!”     His parents were gone, they were not coming back. Somehow he knew this. With so much fog, no one would be able to see, no police officer would be able to track him down, and he had a strong feeling something was going on that was distracting the whole town. If Andrew had emotions, he would have acknowledged that it was something awful, something terrible—but that was not the case, and such things were no concern to Andrew.

Do what feels good. Avoid what feels bad.

Andrew knew what would feel good. Andrew knew the voices were right.

It only took a few moments for Andrew to gather the containers of gasoline his father kept hidden in the storage closet within the garage. There were three full containers, along with a half full can of kerosene. Andrew wasn’t quite sure what he could do with this amount of fluid, but he was in an adventurous enough mood to go and find out.

There was a gleam in his eyes, stronger than any gleam there had ever been before.

Andrew Murphy was a pyromaniac.

He was also a sociopath.

 

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Harbinger Cover

Harbinger Cover

The cover for my horror novel, Harbinger, to be released by Hobbes End Publishing at the end of the month. Like the Harbinger page on Facebook for continual updates and contests! https://www.facebook.com/harbingerdavebright

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April 10, 2014 · 4:12 pm