There have been quite a few posts about things other than my writing. I'm finding that invigorating in some ways, but I will still keep posts on excerpts and upcoming novels. I am still fleshing out When Gods Fail 4 (it will be the final installment of the series, the title might be a little different) but should be getting started on that shortly. Meanwhile a novel inspired by Borges (though nowhere near that man's talent) is coming towards the end. It will be very different from everything else that I've written. And it will span several genres. Some are ones I've never tried before...
So to keep with the theme, click below to see a rough draft of what I've been working on. I will also, in the future, add pieces of shorts that I'm working on as well.
And as I walk, noticing that there are no more slits from doors, just wall and darkness, though now fireflies are lighting my way so I’m not tripping over the uneven moss on the ground—and even some that’s hanging off the ceiling which is too high to reach—I try to think on the men who are after me. If it’s a team moving in on me and trying to end me, then they would be FBI. So all the men I know in the other units, the Death Star units who work overseas, all of them aren’t involved. But perhaps that’s wishful thinking. I know how these leaders think. They are obsessed with historians seeing them as tough men who made tough decisions because this is a tough world. That’s a fact. No one wants to be seen as a weakling. Never. So they would do something like send my old friends after me. After all, all they’ll have to do is dump my body in the ocean somewhere and claim I was galavanting with terrorists, and that would be that. Who’s going to look forward. If I’m lucky a journalist with some integrity will tweet something that says that isn’t the whole story.
Great. That though almost turns my legs into jello, and I start to draw deep breaths, hoping that perhaps there will be a way out of this. But there might not be. I look back and this time there isn’t any light of the living room. This is a tough deal. Perhaps this was the wrong thing to do. And I remember how Mathews didn’t really want me looking this way, and I think that maybe I’ve done wrong. Perhaps the right thing was to ask for forgiveness and I think that perhaps even that wasn’t right. I was supposed to be discussing those definitions with Mathews. Sure we’d come to a stopping point, but what did that all mean? There was more to be discussed. I could turn this.
A scream, that of a little girl, echoes at me, slaps me even. I see the light underneath a door and I run to it.
I knock on the door—silly I know—and when the screams and the scuffling stops, I burst inside.
What greets me is a horrid stench and the sight of, in two rows of either side of an aisle, cages. Stacked as high as I can see. The stench I’ve smelled before. It’s the smell of humans being cooped up in an area for too long. Shit and urine, of course rise to the top of these smells, but there are also other tangible smells that one doesn’t think about: there is the smell of sweat, body odor, feet that haven’t been washed in too long and blood. Dried blood, and fresh blood. All of it is sweet, metallic. And though that smells sweet, there’s the smell o perfume. Somewhere, lingering behind all this organic decay and possibly even life trying to find a way, there’s perfume.
After taking a few steps I finally find it in me to look inside a cage. This one is empty. I look at another one. There’s food on a plate on the floor, some hay, some feces, but that’s about it in terms of signs of life. The next cage has blood. I stand on my toes and try to see what’s in the other cages. Nothing. But there must be something like people somewhere here, after all I just heard the screams. And like that, there are screams again. It’s coming from the end of the room, the other end. I feel more empowered, and reaching into the bag I was given, I pull out the book. I realize that it’s titled: When you don’t pick sides, the devil smiles. This doesn’t seem right, and my hand holding the book trembles. I drop it.
Thanks for reading. As always, you can contact me at firstname.lastname@example.org if you have any questions or wish to discuss something or just to say hi. Look forward to hearing from you.