by kellen_rust » Tue Apr 26, 2011 3:21 pm
yeah of course. i just started working on another book.
also reading like crazy. finished up The Butcher: anatomy of a mafia psychopath, Game Change, and The Murder Room over the past week.
First three chaps of new book if anyone's BORED.
1)
Winston Walcott hurriedly packed his few possessions into a sodden suitcase, still moist from the long rain on the walk into town. The seams had ruptured, almost completely in some places, and the corners bulged like a tumor against the contents inside. His possessions were few in the sense that most people, by age 32, have collected more earthly belongings than will fit into one dilapidated suit case. But Winston wasn't average, not by any stretch of the word. For while a normal person might struggle to fit an extra shirt, or perhaps a second pair of blue jeans, it was a double-barreled shotgun with which Winston struggled against. He was sure it would fit, "absolutely god damned positive;" for he had cut it to just the perfect length a few weeks before, and for precisely that reason. Finally, after much prying, and at the expense of just a few more suitors of stitching, he had it closed.
Beaming, as a child might enthusiastically raise a perfectly colored chrysanthemum to the refrigerators’ door, he hoisted the case with care up onto the freshly made bed. For Winston so prided himself in his tidy little habits, utterly elated when completing even the most mundane tasks, be it the dishes or sweeping or even brushing his teeth. It was the thrill of completion alone that sustained him, and while lofty goals often proved elusive, the dishes did not.
In a sense, his cleanliness was the one thing in the whole world he had complete control over. Impulse and deranged fantasy had almost completely taken over - but he still had good fingernails. It was utter hypocrisy like this that would come to define Winston and his left from center philosophies. You would never guess that he was homeless or often living in shoddy, run down, roach infested motels. But one thing was for certain. He always left them better than he found them, and he doted on this quality.
One room over, completely unaware of anything that was going on in room 215, of the double-barreled shotgun and it's eccentric, psychotic owner, Ms. Sophia Dominguez finished up the last of her chores, one of which was remembering to corner off the end of the toilet paper, an act she despised roundly never mind its simplicity. She thought it "utterly unnecessary, well, when you consider what someone is very soon going to do with that there paper."
After pulling the shower curtain just so, she began gathering up her supplies and transporting them to her work cart, which remained just outside the door, signaling to management precisely what room she was in.
When she was satisfied that she had gathered everything, she turned out the bathroom light, stopped only for a moment to primp her hair in the mirror, and proceeded down the cat walk, 8 or 10 steps, toward room 215, toward Winston Walcott, his shotgun and his ghostly, vacant eyes. Eyes that might give even the most hardened criminal goose bumps, the spring shower shivers.
2)
Bobby Ruck blushed a deep beat-violet, something he'd inherited from his father, as he clasped his hands around Evelyn’s waste. They were both dressed in the finest clothes they owned: Bobby, a suit that had been given to him by his father, the same person, in fact, that had passed down such a radiant hue in Bobby's cheeks when he was embarrassed - or in this case smitten. For surely it was the latter, as Evelyn was, by all account, the only girl he'd ever had an eye for, and here she was, cutting a perfect figure in her favorite satin dress, one her mother had hemmed for her through the better part of a year. The result wasn't short of breathtaking, especially on Evelyn, and Mrs. Temple silently reveled in each picture she snapped, for each bore two-fold things she had taken great pains in bringing into this world.
Bobby and Evelyn were heading that night to the Fairbanks High school Formal, very much a prom in the general sense, an event that held great significance for them especially. Soon they would be heading off to college, the same, as they had both been accepted that previous December. Evelyn was especially nervous, counting down each day with the up most anticipation. She was beautiful by all accounts: elegant, classy, sophisticated, seemingly aristocratic, dainty but never snobby, articulate but never condescending. She was the type of person that made you feel good about yourself. Her hair was a beautiful sun-bleached blonde, the kind that "some girl’s plain dislike you for," she was often quoted as saying to Bobby.
She was well learned on many instruments, but felt most at home on the piano, her slender fingers dancing effortlessly down the ivory keys, coaxing out the most beautiful melodies you were ever likely to hear in person. She had won Bobby over that way; one of the first times he had visited her family's cottage near eastern Idaho. He was taken aback by this seemingly childlike girl producing such a grown-up, ranged concerto. She sang and played and Bobby blushed his best beat-violet - for he had been certain when he arrived that it would be him that did the wooing. Never the less, he reluctantly resigned his role and was obliged to let Evelyn court him – an act she succeeded wholly upon. Within weeks of that meeting they would be deemed the sweethearts of Fairbanks by the local gossip hounds.
Evelyn’s piano teacher, Mr. Douglass, thought Evelyn one of the most promising young pianists in all of Idaho. What's more, he considered her a friend.
"Evelyn was the type of person you could always count on. I remember one time; I broke down plumb middle-a-nowhere, the pitch of night, maybe 2 a.m. I walked about 3 miles to a filling station, it wasn't open but they had a pay phone out front. Evelyn’s the first name that popped into my head. I hardly had the heart to call, could you imagine? Middle of the night like that? Don't reckon anyone else 'a done it, even answered, I mean. But Evelyn was different. Answered on the first ring - it's just how she was. Give you the coat right off her back in a snow storm, no lie."
Evelyn eventually reached the bottom of the stairs, smiled deeply, then curtsied, as if to an invisible audience, and ushered Bobby toward her. Just then, Mrs. Temple snapped her final pre-formal picture.
A picture that still hangs, to this very day, above the entry way of Mr. Douglass' kitchen.
3)
Mr. Walcott began walking, suit case in hand, up i-80 toward Colorado. He had decided, after much internal debate, that he would head North, as he was tired of the smothering great plains, the seemingly never ending intermittent corn and wheat harvests, the sweltering heat, the smoldering concrete, humidity that chokes you like a caustic cloud of chlorine.
Yes, he would head north, and breathe easy mountain air for the first time into his lungs. How he longed for that chilling relief. Instead, he was faced with an endless freeway, a road that very well stretched into perpetuity, and no car to boot. So he resolved to steal one at the next rest stop, and in doing so, seal the fate of some unlucky soul along the way. He was tired of thumbing it, couldn't take it anymore, for it seemed Texas might truly never end if he kept that up.
yeah of course. i just started working on another book.
also reading like crazy. finished up The Butcher: anatomy of a mafia psychopath, Game Change, and The Murder Room over the past week.
First three chaps of new book if anyone's BORED.
1)
Winston Walcott hurriedly packed his few possessions into a sodden suitcase, still moist from the long rain on the walk into town. The seams had ruptured, almost completely in some places, and the corners bulged like a tumor against the contents inside. His possessions were few in the sense that most people, by age 32, have collected more earthly belongings than will fit into one dilapidated suit case. But Winston wasn't average, not by any stretch of the word. For while a normal person might struggle to fit an extra shirt, or perhaps a second pair of blue jeans, it was a double-barreled shotgun with which Winston struggled against. He was sure it would fit, "absolutely god damned positive;" for he had cut it to just the perfect length a few weeks before, and for precisely that reason. Finally, after much prying, and at the expense of just a few more suitors of stitching, he had it closed.
Beaming, as a child might enthusiastically raise a perfectly colored chrysanthemum to the refrigerators’ door, he hoisted the case with care up onto the freshly made bed. For Winston so prided himself in his tidy little habits, utterly elated when completing even the most mundane tasks, be it the dishes or sweeping or even brushing his teeth. It was the thrill of completion alone that sustained him, and while lofty goals often proved elusive, the dishes did not.
In a sense, his cleanliness was the one thing in the whole world he had complete control over. Impulse and deranged fantasy had almost completely taken over - but he still had good fingernails. It was utter hypocrisy like this that would come to define Winston and his left from center philosophies. You would never guess that he was homeless or often living in shoddy, run down, roach infested motels. But one thing was for certain. He always left them better than he found them, and he doted on this quality.
One room over, completely unaware of anything that was going on in room 215, of the double-barreled shotgun and it's eccentric, psychotic owner, Ms. Sophia Dominguez finished up the last of her chores, one of which was remembering to corner off the end of the toilet paper, an act she despised roundly never mind its simplicity. She thought it "utterly unnecessary, well, when you consider what someone is very soon going to do with that there paper."
After pulling the shower curtain just so, she began gathering up her supplies and transporting them to her work cart, which remained just outside the door, signaling to management precisely what room she was in.
When she was satisfied that she had gathered everything, she turned out the bathroom light, stopped only for a moment to primp her hair in the mirror, and proceeded down the cat walk, 8 or 10 steps, toward room 215, toward Winston Walcott, his shotgun and his ghostly, vacant eyes. Eyes that might give even the most hardened criminal goose bumps, the spring shower shivers.
2)
Bobby Ruck blushed a deep beat-violet, something he'd inherited from his father, as he clasped his hands around Evelyn’s waste. They were both dressed in the finest clothes they owned: Bobby, a suit that had been given to him by his father, the same person, in fact, that had passed down such a radiant hue in Bobby's cheeks when he was embarrassed - or in this case smitten. For surely it was the latter, as Evelyn was, by all account, the only girl he'd ever had an eye for, and here she was, cutting a perfect figure in her favorite satin dress, one her mother had hemmed for her through the better part of a year. The result wasn't short of breathtaking, especially on Evelyn, and Mrs. Temple silently reveled in each picture she snapped, for each bore two-fold things she had taken great pains in bringing into this world.
Bobby and Evelyn were heading that night to the Fairbanks High school Formal, very much a prom in the general sense, an event that held great significance for them especially. Soon they would be heading off to college, the same, as they had both been accepted that previous December. Evelyn was especially nervous, counting down each day with the up most anticipation. She was beautiful by all accounts: elegant, classy, sophisticated, seemingly aristocratic, dainty but never snobby, articulate but never condescending. She was the type of person that made you feel good about yourself. Her hair was a beautiful sun-bleached blonde, the kind that "some girl’s plain dislike you for," she was often quoted as saying to Bobby.
She was well learned on many instruments, but felt most at home on the piano, her slender fingers dancing effortlessly down the ivory keys, coaxing out the most beautiful melodies you were ever likely to hear in person. She had won Bobby over that way; one of the first times he had visited her family's cottage near eastern Idaho. He was taken aback by this seemingly childlike girl producing such a grown-up, ranged concerto. She sang and played and Bobby blushed his best beat-violet - for he had been certain when he arrived that it would be him that did the wooing. Never the less, he reluctantly resigned his role and was obliged to let Evelyn court him – an act she succeeded wholly upon. Within weeks of that meeting they would be deemed the sweethearts of Fairbanks by the local gossip hounds.
Evelyn’s piano teacher, Mr. Douglass, thought Evelyn one of the most promising young pianists in all of Idaho. What's more, he considered her a friend.
"Evelyn was the type of person you could always count on. I remember one time; I broke down plumb middle-a-nowhere, the pitch of night, maybe 2 a.m. I walked about 3 miles to a filling station, it wasn't open but they had a pay phone out front. Evelyn’s the first name that popped into my head. I hardly had the heart to call, could you imagine? Middle of the night like that? Don't reckon anyone else 'a done it, even answered, I mean. But Evelyn was different. Answered on the first ring - it's just how she was. Give you the coat right off her back in a snow storm, no lie."
Evelyn eventually reached the bottom of the stairs, smiled deeply, then curtsied, as if to an invisible audience, and ushered Bobby toward her. Just then, Mrs. Temple snapped her final pre-formal picture.
A picture that still hangs, to this very day, above the entry way of Mr. Douglass' kitchen.
3)
Mr. Walcott began walking, suit case in hand, up i-80 toward Colorado. He had decided, after much internal debate, that he would head North, as he was tired of the smothering great plains, the seemingly never ending intermittent corn and wheat harvests, the sweltering heat, the smoldering concrete, humidity that chokes you like a caustic cloud of chlorine.
Yes, he would head north, and breathe easy mountain air for the first time into his lungs. How he longed for that chilling relief. Instead, he was faced with an endless freeway, a road that very well stretched into perpetuity, and no car to boot. So he resolved to steal one at the next rest stop, and in doing so, seal the fate of some unlucky soul along the way. He was tired of thumbing it, couldn't take it anymore, for it seemed Texas might truly never end if he kept that up.