Disjointed Bits From a Novel in Limbo

Below is a series of excerpts from a novel I started work on a while back. So far it hasn't gone very far... whether that is for lack of inspiration or lack of talent, I can't really tell you. For those of you loyal fans who are still reading my blog after all these months of nothingness, please feel free to read and critique.

Chapter 1:

Meet Mark Michaels

“Good morning. Good morning. It’s six forty-five in the Golden Gate City and it’s another bee-A-utiful summer day. The weekend’s on folks, so why are we? And why are YOU listening? Go out there and grab you a piece of this glorious Satur—”

Mark smacked the alarm clock with unusual gusto. Bleary-eyed, he studied the digital read-out. 6:46. Looked like KJRX’s Bud Nutter had it right. Why on earth had he set his alarm last night? Saturday wasn’t a day to be ‘grabbed’; Saturday was a day to be ignored. Saturday was his day to sleep until noon and make no apologies.

He was begrudgingly thankful the alarm had gone off when it did, though. He couldn’t quite remember what he’d dreamed last night, but it had left him with a bad case of the bed-sweats and a headache that wouldn’t quit. Mark cringed as he peeled himself off the bed sheets and swung his feet to the floor. He let out an involuntary shiver as the air in the room drafted across his clammy skin. This had to be one of the most subtly disgusting feelings in existence, Mark thought; to wake up feeling sticky, hot, itchy, and coated in a thin, almost visceral film. It was as if his dreams had angrily barfed him up and not bothered to wipe the mess clean afterward. He gagged a bit at that notion and decided to give it no more thought.

With just the first rays of sunlight sliding in between the blinds, the room was already quite warm and far too bright. Mark squinted and shuffled groggily into the hallway, kicking aside a small pile of dirty clothes as he went. He welcomed the darkness of the bathroom, stepping inside and shutting the door without even turning on the light. Throwing the shower curtain back, Mark set one foot in the tub, letting out a grateful sigh at the cool feel of the porcelain. He reached forward in the dark, grabbed hold of what he thought was the cold water knob and gave it a twist. The showerhead sputtered and came to life.

“Ouch!”

The water came out blistering hot. Mark stumbled backwards out of the tub, trying to avoid the boiling spray. As he wavered in the darkness of the bathroom, a rush of sounds and images went through his mind: an odd crackling; a bitter moan; a tongue of blue flame. A swell of dizziness overwhelmed him and suddenly Mark could no longer bear the darkness. He lunged for the light-switch and a wave of soft yellow filled through the room.

Still shaky, Mark leaned back against the door and shielded his eyes against this new brightness. What the crap was that? He felt a split instance of déjà vu, but now in the light he supposed it was just a bizarre aftershock of a night spent tossing and turning. Staring intently at the floor, he concentrated on regaining his balance.

“Whooo boy. Get your head on straight, buddy.”

Looking up at the mirror over the sink, Mark met his own gaze.

“Get your head on straight,” his reflection mouthed. “Shake it off.”

Mark pushed himself off the door and, giving the bathtub a wide berth, went to turn off the water. He could feel himself beginning to relax, but as he placed his hand on the knob, he couldn’t help but jump again. It was ice cold.

*****

Mark stared at himself judgingly. The shower had cleared his head; once he got the hot and cold knobs straightened out, that is. Even his headache seemed to be waning. And yet, Mark wasn’t feeling much better. How could he be? I mean look at those worry lines, those bloodshot eyes, those first signs of a receding hairline. Blech.

Mark Michaels was only 33, but in his mind’s eye it looked more like he was on the tails end of 40. He was plain in stature and appearance. He had brown eyes, dusty colored hair, and pale skin. He was just a lego shy of six feet tall—Mams had always measured in legos—with the lankiness of someone twice his height. He wasn’t too big or too small, too regal or too dumpy, too warm or too cold. In the right fairy tale, some might have described him as “just right,” but to the world at large Mark was just boring. He was the type of man people easily overlooked and even more easily forgot—perfectly average and perfectly plain. Even his name stressed his ordinariness. What sick twist of fate leaves a man with two first names?

Mark typically wore warm eyes and an inquisitive smile, but lately they seemed worn out. He rubbed his hand across his stubble-ridden jaw and let out a sigh.

“What happened to you, buddy?”

His reflection glared back incredulously, almost as if it felt insulted by Mark’s question. He couldn’t blame it, that simple question—with all its truth—hurt him too.

“We’ll get it back, my friend. We’re just in a slump right now… a seemingly perpetual, eight year slump.”

This was Mark’s regular morning therapy—gazing in the mirror and voicing his thoughts, no matter how silly or insane they might be. It was an admittedly odd habit, but one that had worked for him since he was a small boy. After all, sometimes the only one that understood him was him. This morning, though, his inner-outer monologue felt especially ridiculous and, while honest, a tad self-deprecating.

“Perhaps we’ll cut this session short. I don’t think you or I have much of value to say. Besides, I need to go out and ‘grab me a piece of this glorious Saturday,’ anyway.” He flashed air quotes to the mirror as he mimicked the ghastly nasal tones of the morning drive’s Bud Nutter.

Mark shot himself a respectful nod, laughing at his own peculiar introspectiveness, and journeyed out from the bathroom to face the day, almost positive his reflection had given him a little wink on the way out.

*****

On a quiet street, far away from Mark Michaels and his blatant insecurities, two men sit on a crumbling old curb. Straddled between them, half buried in the putrid sludge filling the gutter, is a black plastic trash bag. One man chances a glance at the bag’s contents and heaves.

“Would you stop that? Now you’re just asking to be sick, you krat.”

“I have to look. There might be something we can learn from this, some little clue we’ve missed so far, some pattern rising to the surface.”

“By the Spectrum, Quentin, what more blatant pattern could there be? He’s killing his hues. There’s never been a more black and white motive in recorded history.” The man speaking lights a strange cigarette. “Besides, the only thing rising to the surface at this point is your lunch. And I’m not cleaning that crap up too.”

The first man, Quentin, looks only mildly ruffled by this statement. “That may very well be, Pyrik, but what would you have me do? It’s my job to get inside this psychopath’s head. The only way I can do that is by touching what he has touched and seeing what he has seen—experiencing the pain he has inflicted. Whether or not that makes me sick, is not of my or your concern.”

The man named Pyrik laughs. “Suppose you’re right there, Quents. Alright, what’s our next move? What vibes are you picking up from our dead friend here?”

Pulling back the lip of the bag, Quentin squirms slightly. “Well. It looks like our victim died quickly—had his neck snapped before he could put up much of a struggle. Of course that means the savage beating he suffered post mortem was almost purely for the entertainment of the assailant—much like the others we found. I think he’s relishing these kills, beating on the bodies some out of frustration but mostly as a display of dominance.”

“Out of frustration, huh? So I take it this wasn’t the guy he was looking for either?”

“No, my guess is that we’ll have little doubt when he finds his real target.”

“Hmmph. So what is this, Quents? Good news or bad news?”

“Mostly good, in the sense that our mission still has a slim chance of success. It’s bad too, of course, in that he’s surely going to keep killing until he finds his man.”

“Alright, then let’s find the next one first. Beat him to the punch… no pun intended, of course.”

“Of course.”

*****

As Mark swung open the door to the café, the bittersweet aroma of fresh-brewed coffee filled his nostrils. He stopped just inside the entryway and sucked in a deep breath.

“Ahhh. Liz, you spoil me baby.”

The face of a young blonde popped up from under the counter. She wore a Flaming Lips tank and a deliciously infectious smile. Playfully clipped in her hair was a yellow bow, at the center of which was a silver name badge. “Elizabeth Warner, Assistant Manager,” it read. Mark took in another lungful.

“You know, just seeing your smiling face makes getting out of bed all worth it,” Mark said under his breath.

Liz batted her eyes flirtatiously and her grin spread even wider. Mark was always struck by her delicate features. She had wispy shoulder-length hair, a button-nose, subtly pouty lips, and skin the color of vanilla ice cream. Her eyes were a dazzling silver and in the right light they shimmered like the bay. Mark often thought she resembled a porcelain doll—one crafted so perfectly that the Lord blessed it with life. Liz slid a comically inflated blueberry muffin across the counter to an old man, and Mark let out a sigh.

“So graceful… a regular culinary angel,” Mark said quietly.

Their eyes met and Mark’s pulse jumped. In that moment he wanted nothing more than to dive across the counter, take Liz in his arms, and plant the longest, wettest kiss on those pouty lips. He wanted to swim in those eyes of hers… no, he wanted to drown in them, never to come up for air again. He wanted to be lost in her and let the world slip away in the rising tide. He felt the rush of a cool bayside breeze across his face. Lost in his own imagination, he saw warm light caress Liz’s face. She tossed her hair back and it fluttered majestically as if blown by some heavenly wind. She opened her mouth in a soundless whisper. “Come to me,” her lips said, “come here to me.” Mark leaned toward her, ready for anything…

A violent shove brought Mark back to consciousness.

“Jeez, buddy. Get out of the doorway! It’s not exactly toasty outside,” someone grumbled from behind him. Mark stumbled out of the entrance as the flood of reality washed back over him. The room was abuzz with sound—a coffee grinder whirred; a mass of morning commuters churned in front of the counter, busily yacking on their cell phones and crinkling their daily papers; a barista hoarsely shouted drink orders out to the crowd; a group of retirees excitedly chatted about the latest Oprah selection; and, from behind him, a clump of frustrated breakfast-seekers pined to get through the café door.

“Sorry,” Mark said feebly. “I didn’t realize.”

He laughed uncomfortably as a sour-faced mother of three tromped into the café followed by her equally perturbed children—the smallest of which shot Mark a nasty glare and blew a raspberry. What an ugly family, Mark thought. In fact, with his cheeks pouched out, the kid looked alarmingly like a baboon Mark had sketched at the public zoo just last week.

“Ahem. Mark, would you come here already.” Mark whipped around. It was Liz. “Mark, do you hear me?” Liz looked nearly as annoyed as the monkey family that had just passed by. “I’ve been calling you forever. What are you, on drugs?”

“What? No, I was just…”

“It doesn’t matter. Just get back here, will you?”

“Uh, sure. No problem.” Mark navigated through the crowd and made his way behind the counter. Liz didn’t sound very happy—Mark supposed his doorway fantasy would have to wait. Nonetheless, he worked up the nerve to transform his last few steps toward Liz into what he believed was an alluring saunter.

“Good grief,” Liz said, “you’re even walking like a drunk. Maybe I don’t want you back here.”

Mark straightened up and spoke as soberly as he could muster. “Sorry. Guess I’m just feeling real loose. It is Saturday, after all. But I’m fine, Liz. I promise. What do you need?”

Liz fiddled under the counter and pulled out a blue apron. “Put this on,” she said. “I know it’s your day off, but Alice called in sick and Mickey’s in the back with a mop bucket, getting reacquainted with his dinner.” Mickey was Liz’s father—a fiend and perpetual drunk. He also happened to be owner of the Bayside Café and Mark’s primary source of income. Liz referred to him as ‘Mickey’ not out of fondness, but out of disrespect. She wasn’t alone, either. No one in the café liked Mickey, not even the clientele. If it wasn’t for his keen business sense and inimitable knack for making scrumptious café goodies, no one would have had any use for him. But what Mickey lacked in personality, he certainly made up for in talent—his food was the best on the bay and the customers kept pouring in.

“He’s red-faced again? That’s the third time this week,” Mark said.

“I’m aware of how many times it is,” Liz snapped, “and this actually makes four.”

Mark slipped on his apron, glanced up at the waiting order slips, and started foaming some cream for a ‘Mickey-cino.’—that pompous jerk. Liz hurriedly took down three more orders, including the foursome Mark had now dubbed “the Gorrilaz,” and turned back toward Mark.

“Why are you here today, anyway?”

“Um. I don’t know. I just like it here, I guess.”

“Why?”

“C’mon, seaside view, great coffee, thriving social scene, what’s not to like?” Not to mention the gorgeous company, Mark thought.

“You’re full of crap,” Liz said unabashedly. “Nobody likes it here. Why do you think I’m solo this morning? Aside from my douche bag of a father, that is?” She bit her lip. “No, I think you’re here for something else.”

Mark’s stomach lurched. Sure the Joe wasn’t bad, but he could grab a Starbucks a block from his apartment (in both directions, in fact). He walked the 3.8 miles to get here every day because he wanted to see Liz. But she wasn’t supposed to know that. She was the boss’s daughter, after all, and no one hit on the boss’s daughter. Mark remembered too well the last guy who had tried. Thoroughly sloshed and shouting loudly about the qualities necessary to be good enough for his “Lizzie Bear,” Mickey had chased the dude down with a rolling pin. The poor fool had needed twelve stitches and a nose splint by the time the boss was done with him—not exactly a fashion statement Mark wanted to emulate.

“What exactly is that?” Mark asked apprehensively.

“I haven’t really put my finger on it yet,” Liz said. “Inspiration, maybe? Who knows? This seems like a crap-awful place to find it, but then you’re a peculiar guy, aren’t you?”

“I… I suppose so.” Mark was not fond of the ‘peculiar’ moniker he had just garnered.

“I mean, you never miss a shift. I see you here on your days off. Even in the evenings I’ve caught you peddling your sketches not a block from the café.” Liz shook her head. “It’s just weird. If I could escape this place, I’d be out of here in an instant and not spare a single glance back.”

Mark was growing more and more uncomfortable with the conversation. Either Liz was on to him and his unnatural infatuation with her, and was trying to fend him off quickly, or she was simply expressing her confusion and distaste for his particular breed of ‘peculiarity.’ Either way, Mark felt the conversation drawing to a disappointing close. He’d had a little too much disappointment as of late, so, in a moment of insanity and in complete disregard of his own personal welfare, he decided to go for broke.

“I guess I’m just fond of the pretty little thing behind the counter,” he said and gave Liz a little wink. He felt stupid the moment it had left his lips, but to his surprise, Liz giggled.

“You’re sweet, Mark.” She continued to scribble down orders. “The line’s dwindling. Why don’t you finish up those drinks and get out of here? I think I can handle it from here on out. I’ll make sure Mickey pays you for your time.”

“But…” Mark stuttered awkwardly. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah. Go on. I wouldn’t want to keep you from this glorious Saturday. Go grab yourself a piece.”

Apparently Mark hadn’t been the only one woken up by the annoying verbal flatulence of the Bay City’s Bud Nutter.

“Alright, mind if I grab a coffee to wash it down with?”

“Sure. It’s on the house.” Liz smiled gloriously. “Just don’t think you’ll get a freebie every time you call me pretty,” she said with a wink.

Mark chuckled. “Fair enough.”

*****

How to Write a Forward

Today, whilst I was reading a forward passed on to me by my mother (thanks, ma), I came upon a conundrum: where do forwards come from? I mean, we’ve all seen them (most of us more often than we’d like) and many of us have even ashamedly passed them on, but who exactly starts these soul-sucking, time-depriving monstrosities that flood our inboxes day in and day out? I didn’t have the slightest idea, so I began to research what I have dubbed the “Forward Phenomena”—going back over those few forwards I have left in my inbox and reviewing others online. What I found may shock you…

Human beings, actual human beings create these things (I know, I’m appalled too). In fact, there exists in our world today a small secret society, well versed in the delicate craft of forward creation, whose sole purpose is to devote endless time and energy to the development and subsequent mass dispersal of these email messages. With unrelenting sadism, they crank these suckers out in hopes of pulling us away from our more pressing messages and our regular responsibilities, thus wearing on our sanity and draining us slowly of our will to live.

Well, I say the realm of forwards has been held in the iron clutches of this exclusivist society for far too long. It’s time for us to take our lives and our inboxes back! How do we do that, you ask? Simple—we fight impersonal monotony with impersonal monotony! If we each develop a forward of our own, we can come together to barrage the inboxes of those merciless forward-writers, bringing down their massive servers and forcing them up from their mothers’ basements and into the light of day! Are you with me?!

If you’re ready to join me in mounting a resistance to this tyranny, I’ve used my research to develop a short treatise on forward-writing that should serve you well as we embark on this rebellion. The following step-by-step approach will teach you all you need to know to craft a forward:

1) As you begin, be sure to use an obnoxiously large or outrageous font—an indecipherable cursive or comically inflated font works best. Feel free to change the size and type of this font as you go along. In fact, the more frequently the font changes, the better.

2) Immediately switch your font’s color from the default black to something that will inflict more intense eye strain on your readers. Bright blues, greens, and reds are excellent. Remember this mantra: “if it can’t cause a seizure, then it’s not a forward worth sending.” Like the font itself, be liberal in your color changes throughout the body of your message. If you have no life at all, I encourage you to adjust the color subtly on each and every character you type. It may take time, but your forward-loving readership will appreciate your devotion.

*You can disregard points 1 & 2 if, and only if, you plan to draft your forward in an ancient plain type font (we’re talking straight from a Commodore 64). If your font is so very archaic that it actually hurts to read, then you’ve accomplished the essential point of parts 1 & 2 without all the fuss—congratulations.

3) Pay close attention to your punctuation. Either keep it to an absolute minimum OR place a period, comma, semi-colon, or ellipsis after nearly every word you use. The same goes for capitalization—EITHER CAPITALIZE EVERYTHING or forego capitalization altogether. It’s important that no matter what you choose here, though, that you stay consistent. Don’t go throwing properly punctuated or capitalized sentences in there anywhere—your readers don’t want to see that.

4) Use stupidly long acronyms, abbreviate phrases for no reason, and misspell common words just to be clever. B’lieve me, it’s GR8 and i know yer BFFs will jus’ luvvit. Ppl can’t get enuff, they’ll b ROFL, even if they have BTDTGTTSAWIO. (wow, it actually pains me to write that crap)

5) It is imperative that you include some tacky clip art, ASCII drawings, and/or poorly doctored photographs (animals with thought bubbles and friends faces tacked on celebrity bodies are very popular). I have found that very few forwards are complete without this element, so you must remember to take your time in implementing this portion of your project. In fact, if you’re nervous about what to write, you can forego a written message altogether if you attach an obscenely large string of pictures to your email (believe me). Examples of acceptable forward pictures include: puppies, babies, celebrities caught in embarrassing/compromising poses, or religious symbols found in bowls of cereal, sweat marks, oddly shaped potato chips, etc. Remember, though, any less than 10 of these pictures will not adequately make up for a lack of fabricated verbiage, so include plenty.

6) Now, on to your actual message. Although this would typically be the meat of any email, in the case of forwards the message is relatively unimportant. Simply keep in mind that your message must contain one or more of the following: (1) a decidedly one-sided religious and/or political message, (2) a sappy lesson-evoking story, (3) a stupid, offensive, and/or ridiculously corny joke, (4) reasons to love/hate your job, (5) quotes from overplayed pop/country songs, (6) numbingly simplistic metaphors and analogies, (7) manufactured advice, (8) warnings about computer viruses, identity theft scams, or spreading diseases, (9) a questionnaire about yourself and your favorite things, or (10) an invitation to stand up for a cause your readers have either never heard of or expressed no personal interest in. Include any one of these elements and your message will inherently achieve the maximum poignancy possible for any forward.

7) As you close your message emphasize that your letter must be sent on to no less than 10 to 15 other people. To ensure that your readers do pass on your message, be sure to threaten, insult, or guilt them in the appropriate fashion. Possible closing messages include: (1) “bad luck will befall you if you don’t pass this on,” (2) “pass this on to xx number of people and you won’t believe the amazing surprise you’ll receive… believe me!” (3) “Bill Gates will personally send you a check for $1,000 if you only forward this on to xx of your closest friends,” (4) “if you don’t pass this on to xx others then you don’t care about this country or the liberties we hold dear,” (5) “if you have any real faith or conviction you will share this message with xx others,” or possibly (6) “share this with the people you truly love, because you know they wouldn’t hide such an important message from you.” Whatever you choose to close with, just be sure that you pull no punches and hold no regrets. The closing of forwards is unscrupulous business. Be prepared to take advantage of everything your readers’ hold dear.

8) Now we come to the finishing touches. Before you send your message off, be sure you are using an email account that is in some way sponsored by an advertising entity. I can’t stress this enough, ALL FORWARDS MUST END IN RELENTLESS INVITATIONS AND TEMPTATIONS TO “CLICK HERE.” If, following your signature, you offer your readers no means of saving on medical insurance, losing a ton of weight, making a small fortune, erasing their debt, winning a free vacation, downloading free smiley sets, or switching to a better, faster email service, then all of your previous work has been in vain. If you don’t already have links like these at the ends of all your emails, then you really need to refocus before you send out any forwards.

9) You have more freedom when it comes to the title of your message. Just be sure to make it cryptic and ambiguous enough to keep your readers guessing until they actually open the thing. You wouldn’t want them to actually know what they’re about to read, now would you? This is especially crucial in the case of crude jokes or emails containing loud music files. I would suggest that if you are in the market for these kinds of messages, then you title your email something like “You Have to Open this at Work” or “Your Coworkers will Love This!” That may sound like an obvious sneak attack to you, but you won’t believe how gullible and naïve forward-openers can sometimes be.

10) In your subject line, before your main title, be sure to include the “FW:” tag. This too is essential to your success. Even though this is the very first time it’s going out, your readers must understand that this is without a doubt forward-able material. For good measure, you might consider adding multiple FWs to your subject line—there’s nothing more personal than receiving a message that’s obviously been passed around to everyone else first (not unlike a disease, if you think about it). *Note to readers: if you receive a forward, you must not, under any circumstance, remove the “FW” from the subject line. By removing the “FW,” you add far too much of a special touch to your message. It must be inherent to your friends and family that you care so much about them and this message, that you couldn’t even take the time to give the title personal flair.

11) Last but not least, go back into the body of your message and fabricate a series of address headings. First off, you don’t want your readers to have any idea where the forward passing actually began, so it’s important that you implicate as many other folks as possible. Secondly, everyone knows that any forward worth its salt contains a million and a half email addresses before the actual message begins. Your readers expect to scroll for an eternity before ever coming to anything of “substance,” so give them what they want. General rule of thumb: every forward should contain 3/4 email addresses and headings, and 1/4 message. If you follow this rule, you’ll be greeted with nothing but success.

With the completion of step 11, you are ready to attack. Now choose 15-20 forward-happy people in your social circle and let ‘er rip. The society will never know what hit ‘em.

\m/ Fight the power. \m/

Random Emailage of the Day

Wow, I'm doing amazingly well at this whole posting everyday thing. I really need to get my act together, I guess. That is, if I want to truly blog with the best of them. Well, right now I'm at work, so I feel morally (and I suppose contractually) obligated to focus on my work-related obligations and I can't really spend all afternoon sharing my innermost secrets with all of you--although I want nothing more. All that being said, though, I see no reason why I can't share with you a random email I sent to a friend of mine the other day (what a consolation, huh?). My wife suggested I post it, as you might find it funny and perhaps pick up a bit more on what drives my occasional lunacy (although, I doubt you will *wink*). There was a website posting made by my good friend, Ann White, that informs the email below, but I don't think you really need it to enjoy the conversation that follows. I hope it gives you a mid-day chuckle.

The following email was by no means drafted or sent on company time...cough:

Ms. White (in the Ballroom with the Candlestick),

I’m interested in pursuing a second degree through Oklahoma Christian. I saw “Underwater Basket-weaving” on the University’s blog-site and I wanted to inquire as to the entrance requirements for the program. While I can hold my breath for decently long periods, splinters and I do not mix. Is it a 110% probability that I will get splinters during the program or can that be avoided through extra practice sessions and resolute devotion to my craft? Why does the University use splinter-prone materials, anyway? I know a guy who could get you some high-quality basket fiber that has a splinter threshold of approximately 1400 lbs. A bag of 128 tabby cats and 1/8 scale bronze statue of Buddha couldn’t break those things (believe me, we tried it). As long as the University doesn’t ask him where he gets it, my guess is he’ll give it to you cheap.

Anyway, I was also wondering what professional contacts the school could offer me through this program. Are there any good internships available? I noticed on your website that the three top career choices of U.B. Majors were “butcher, baker, and candlestick maker.” I don’t have a strong interest to do any of those things. In fact, synchronized baking just seems silly and underwater butchering sounds pretty disgusting. Candlestick whittling could pose a significant underwater challenge… but I don’t think it’s for me. No, what I really want to do is weave impossibly large and convoluted wicker masterpieces whilst I prunify in a depth of no less than 12 feet in the Mediterranean Sea (the water there is more conducive to shapely bending of the basket fibers). Have any of the professors at OC spent any time under the Mediterranean? I hear it’s beautiful and the local undersea craftsmen really know their stuff. One guy weaved a full-size likeness of Paul Giamatti during a eight hour stint underwater to commemorate the opening of “Lady in the Water” a couple years back. Not the greatest flick, but I heard that basket sold for a cool $8.37 on EBay. Now that’s the kind of lucrative career I could really sink my teeth into.

Underwater Basket-weaving has been a dream of mine since I was a wee lad. Ever since my father died from wicker shrapnel cast off from a basket made by one of those “above water” manufacturers, I’ve known this was my calling. Now that OC is finally offering this desperately needed field of study, I want on board. Could you put me in contact with Professor Dumbledore so that we could discuss more. (By the way, tell him his name sounds very familiar… has he ever been to Anchorage? My parents used to have a penguin ranch there. Hmmm…)

I’d appreciate any information you can give me. Thank you for your time!

Cornelius Blue

A Small Smackerel of Writing for you to Nibble On

This is not my post for the day, but I thought for those avid readers out there it might tide you over. Below is an excerpt from a manuscript I started a while back. I had intended to turn it into a full-length novel, but I was really struggling to make it flow right and I wasn't sure it carried the narrative hook necessary to hold my readers. I'm very interested to hear what you think. Read the Prologue and leave a comment. If you're absolutely hooked and have to know what happens next, then I suppose I'll have to write more. If you find it slow or boring, please tell me that too. Every great writer values criticism (mind you, I didn't say we all "like" it).

DISCLAIMER: The text below contains some mild language. If you're very averse to profanity, please stop reading now and wait to enjoy my next post. Thanks.

Prologue

The room was dark, only vague images could be discerned in the blackness. A table, maybe a mirror in the far corner—something reflective enough to impress a small void on the opposite end of the room—otherwise Mark couldn’t be sure. The room was large, chasm-like from the sound of his timid shuffling.

Why am I shuffling again? I can’t quite remember…

He didn’t remember much, in fact. His head throbbed with a bitter heat, the kind that reminded him of summer days spent in bed and cruelly punctual mornings spent popping the lids off Ibuprofen bottles as if they were packages of tic-tacs.

How did I get here?

The darkness was disorienting. Coupled with the relentless pulsing of what felt like his very brain, it was enough to make Mark sick. He struggled to focus, but silhouettes washed in and out of his vision in a maddening tide. He would sit, but some instinct told him to remain upright. The best he could do was grope forward and hope for some convenient support to rest his body against until the whirlpool in his head calmed to a mild ripple.

Though he felt tense, his arms were almost alarmingly loose—they swung about drunkenly before him, slashing at the nothingness around him with crude efficiency. Meanwhile Mark’s legs struggled to keep up.

One foot after the other, just like mams taught you.

His whole lower body felt stubbornly rigid—every hinge all but refusing to budge. He thrust his torso forward, continuing to flail his upper extremities, and his heavy legs slowly edged ahead.

That’s right, baby steps ol’ buddy. No reason to freak out.

There was reason enough for Mark to be scared, though. Someone else was moving around in here too. Not doggedly creeping as Mark was, but scampering about with such liquidity that Mark felt more sure of the shadows swimming about him than of the whereabouts—or even existence—of this mysterious individual.

Mark listened intensely for discernable movement. Nothing. All he could hear was the static crackle that he could only assume was rain falling outside somewhere. He guessed that the disjointed nature of the sound, as well as the dull hum that complemented it, could only be the inventions of his own agonized brain. After all, if the room could be sloshing about in a soup of ambiguity, who was he to assume that the sounds accompanying its constant ebb and flow would be any clearer? Nonetheless, Mark kept his ear trained for the sound of this strange person—or thing—moving around him.
At last one of Mark’s fishing arms landed. His right hand caught hold of a rough surface just a couple feet in front of him. The concreteness of the object before him, whatever it was, energized Mark’s obstinate muscles and, as if every part of his body were giving a collective shout of rejoicing, he lurched forward and enthusiastically took hold of it.

Oh, thank God.

He barely had time to celebrate this small victory, though, as the sound of movement behind him brought the foreboding nature of his surroundings flooding back. Mark gripped tighter onto the object before him—what felt like a large rock podium of some kind—and wrenched his head around toward the back of the room. He was hardly surprised to find that he could see no one moving behind him, not even the peculiar artifacts of movement one can sometimes find in the dark were visible. He squinted and strained, but saw nothing.

“Is…” Mark stopped, hesitant to continue, shocked by the sound of his own voice there in the dark. “Is someone there?”

No response. Only a faint chattering and an airy whistle could be heard. Silently willing his ears to hear, Mark could only stare—stare into nothingness and pray.

“I won’t hurt you,” Mark said cautiously, “just please let me know if you’re there… Please.”

Chatter, chatter, chatter, but no words came to sooth Mark’s growing paranoia.

“Listen. If you’re scared, I understand. I don’t know what’s going on here and I don’t know how we got here and I don’t know why it’s so dark and so cold and so…”

Chatter, chatter, chatter.

“Dammit! Talk to me!”

A harsh and bitter moan cut through the emptiness before him. A rasping, gurgling, heaving cry that, though wordless, expressed more to Mark than words could ever say. “Kill me,” it said, “end it now before I have to see, feel, know what happens next.” Mark turned his back to the noise.

What the hell is happening? I can’t take this. I just can’t take this.

In every inch of his body Mark could feel his heart throbbing, pulsing with anxiety and uncertainty. He placed his hand over his chest as insurance that it wouldn’t just burst right out and dance across the floor. His legs shook. His skin felt clammy and cold.

Relax. One breath after the other—mams taught you that too.

He tried desperately to drown out the sound, but the man’s cries refused to be dampened—they echoed from all corners of the room as if the darkness itself were weeping in agony.

“Stop it!!”

Mark closed his eyes tight, wishing to block out the room entirely from his consciousness.

No more. Within me I’m safe. And when I open my eyes, this torture will be over.

“Wrong again, Marky-boy.”

Mark’s eyes sprung open almost involuntarily. Before him, etched in the darkness, was a face. He saw no body. In fact, he saw nothing at all. It was as if the visage before him were made of the very emptiness filling the room. And yet he could recognize its presence, sense its… no, his emotion—and he was smiling.

“You’ll never be safe, Marky-Mark. Not now. Not now that I’ve made my mark.”

The face contorted and a tongue of blue flame licked out from its mouth. Mark briefly saw the shimmer of water and his own faint reflection. The tongue retreated back into its jaws, as the face let out a wild cackle.

“Don’t worry, though, Marky. You die, and then the fun really begins.”