Okay, I know I said something last week about 10 excerpts in 10 days, but you and I both know I meant 10 excerpts in 12 days, right? I mean, that is what I meant to say...really...
And today's excerpt is from my short story, Youth in a Bottle, which for those of us with a few years on us is an intriguing idea. It was for the main character of this story, aging burned-out rock star Grace Smith, until she found out what it was the bottle contained.
You can still get Youth in a Bottle (the story, not the youth), and the rest of my collection THE ALCHEMIST & OTHER DARK TALES, for just 99 cents, for download to your Kindle here or for download to your Nook here.
And now, for today's excerpt:
*****
...Tonight none of that mattered. Grace felt more alive, more like a singer, more like a rock star than she had in nearly a decade. The announcer quieted the crowd, called her name and Grace sprinted onto the stage.
She dove in to her opening set, deep voice bellowing the lyrics at a fevered pitch. Diehard Grace Smith fans made up the audience. They had come despite the vitriolic reviews of recent shows, and soon were screaming for more, their fists pumping in time with the music. After ninety minutes, the appointed time for the concert to end, Grace was nowhere near finished. She turned to her band.
“All right boys, that's enough of a warm-up, now let's rock the house,” she called into the mic. The band members glanced at one another, surprise on their faces. So far the daily script for the tour had been play hard for ninety minutes, sometimes less, then get off the stage and the rest of the night belonged to them.
“I said, let’s ROCK THE HOUSE,” Grace screamed. The audience joined in, their cries for more echoing off the walls, the roof. The band members kicked in on their respective instruments. For another ninety minutes they played, the audience cheered, and Grace was in heaven. She forgot about being old, about being tired, about the small but now-rabid audience. For those ninety minutes it was just her and the music, melding together. Finally Grace’s agent, who doubled as her road manager, got her attention from the wings. He was pointing at his watch – if the band and crew didn’t clear the building by midnight he’d have to cough up another day’s rent.
She sang two more songs, then exited the stage.
“Damn, that felt incredible,” she screamed as her bandmates followed into the wings. Grace hugged each one of them – another surprise, since she had barely acknowledged their existence during the tour. “Great show guys.” She jogged to her dressing room, shut the door behind her and leaned against the wall, eyes closed, listening to cheers filtering from the concert hall.
“Quite a show.”
Her eyes snapped open.
“How did you ... you weren’t here a second ago,” she said.
“I was, I chose not to be seen. I must compliment you, Ms. Smith, on a stirring performance.” He bowed slightly. “I see you tried the elixir.”
“Yeah, I tried it, so what?” She walked across the room, brushing roughly against the man.
“Come, come, Ms. Smith, I would think you’d be ecstatic with the results.”
“Results? I drank it, nothing happened. I suppose you’ll get a good laugh out of that, making me believe I could find youth again in that damn little bottle.”
“That’s exactly what you found, Ms. Smith. Youth. At least a few hours of that most precious commodity.”
“Like hell. That stuff is about as worthless as—”
“You sang tonight like you were thirty. You even look younger."
Despite her cynicism Grace twirled to the mirror. She leaned close. Sweat glistened on her skin, but even through the perspiration she could see the lines on her face where a tad shallower, the circles under her eyes a bit faded. She faced the stranger.
“What did you give me?”
“Oh, I’m not sure you really want to know just yet. Later, once you begin to truly understand what it means to grow young.”
“What did you give me?”
The man smiled, but remained silent.
Grace maintained a hard stare. As a young rock singer she had been naturally defiant whenever a manger or bar owner tried to bully her. She felt the same emotion tonight, another feeling she had not known in years.
“I said tell me.”
More silence.
“I got all night,” Grace said.
“As you wish. The vial was filled with blood. Human blood.”
The defiance left her body like helium escaping a popped balloon. Grace grabbed her belly, turned to the dressing table and leaned against it for support. Her stomach heaved. Vomit filled her mouth before spilling onto the tabletop. ...
*****
Read the rest of Youth in a Bottle (the story, not the youth), and my collection THE ALCHEMIST & OTHER DARK TALES, for just 99 cents, for download to your Kindle here or for download to your Nook here.
Showing posts with label vampire. Show all posts
Showing posts with label vampire. Show all posts
Monday, June 3, 2013
Thursday, May 30, 2013
Vampires come in all shapes and sizes...
Day five of my Ten Excerpts in Ten Days brings us to my story, Interview With The Barber. A mainstay of the dark fantasy and horror tales through the centuries has been the legend of the vampire -- immortals who feed on human blood to maintain their own lives.
We've seen evil vampires, funny vampires, even sparkly vampires, but I daresay you've not seen one like Robert Presley. And you can read the full tale Interview With The Barber in my collection THE ALCHEMIST & OTHER DARK TALES, on sale now for just 99 cents.
And now, from Interview With The Barber...
*****
I decided the only way to figure out what was going on was to do a little spying. I drove by the shop Friday night long after Presley had closed and gone home. I checked around the building in the dark with my cheap key chain flashlight and found two small windows in the back, completely hidden by two overgrown bushes.
The next night – Presley keeps his shop open late on Saturdays – I parked at an abandoned grocery store a mile down the road and walked to his shop as dusk fell. It was dark by the time I reached his place, so I snuck between a few cars parked in the lot then slipped around the building. I ducked in between the bushes and peered through the windows.
For the next hour I watched Presley cutting away, a seemingly permanent half-smile on his face, his mouth moving with his idle barbershop conversation. I couldn't hear him, but I was sure he was telling more of his jokes and stories, relating the town gossip some of his customers from earlier in the day had told him.
Another half-hour passed and there were just two people left with Presley – an old gruff of a man with a bushy gray beard, dressed in dirty overalls, was climbing into the barber's chair and a younger man, probably my age, was sitting in the waiting section flipping through a magazine.
The old guy sat in the chair, Presley decked him out in the barber's apron and started cutting away at his hair, his mouth moving in what was no doubt a monotonous litany of meaningless chit-chat. I prepared to leave, disgusted with myself for having wasted the evening. Then it happened.
Presley stepped away from the old guy, put his clippers and comb on the shelf and then stepped back to the chair. The old man never moved. The young guy sat still, the magazine slipping from his hands to the floor. He made no move to retrieve it.
Presley stood with his arms by his sides. His mouth twitched, his whole face convulsed. His mouth stretched wider than humanly possible, his lower lip peeled back, and two giant insect-like mandibles protruded through his gums, growing upward over his top lip, giving his lower face a bug-like appearance.
Presley leaned over the old man, moved the beard aside and slid the two mandibles through the man's skin, into his neck. I lost track of time, watching as Presley drank the man’s blood. He stood, pulled a tissue from his pocket, dabbed a little blood from the man's neck and let the man's beard fall back into place. He stepped toward the young man in the waiting chair. I wanted to scream, to smash through the windows and warn the man, but I watched. Somehow, I had the presence of mind to glance at my watch this time, just as Presley began draining the blood from his second victim. When he finished I looked at the watch again – it seemed as if he had been there long enough to drain the man dry, but he had been drinking the victim's blood for less than ten minutes.
Presley again pulled the tissue from his pocket, dabbed at the man's neck, then bent over, picked up the magazine and placed it in the man's hands. Presley walked back to his shelf, picked up his hair-cutting utensils and turned back to the room. When he did his face had returned to normal – the round, full, flushed face of a man who had just fed. He walked to the bearded man, began snipping at his hair, his mouth moving again, no doubt with more gossip. A minute later the bearded man was talking, the young man flipping the magazine pages.
I sat on the cool, barren patch of dirt under the bush, not sure what to do.
What could I do? No one would believe me if I tried to tell what I'd seen. I had to confront Presley. Tell him I knew what he was. I would do it Monday.
I slept little that night and the next. I was nervous about confronting him, afraid to fall asleep, some little fear deep inside me said he already knew what I had seen, that he'd burst through the door to my apartment any moment. He never did, but by Monday I was exhausted from thinking, and worrying, about it all weekend. It took all the concentration I could muster to get through the day.
After work I drove to Presley's barbershop. Standing outside the door I checked through my coat pockets for what must have been the fiftieth time to make sure I had everything. I took a deep breath, opened the door and stepped in. He was sitting in his own barber’s chair, alone, looking as if he expected my visit.
“Back so soon? I must not be cuttin’ your hair short enough.” He chuckled as he spoke, a laugh that once seemed a simple country chortle. Now my skin crawled at the sound.
“I’m not here for a haircut,” I said, my mouth dry, my voice quivering.
Presley stood, stepped to the side of the chair and patted the brown vinyl cover.
“Climb on up and–”
“No!” I screamed, cutting him off in mid-sentence.
He grew quiet. I paused, not sure what to do next. Presley stepped back in front of his chair, slowly sat down and smiled broadly.
“Well, then, what can I do for you?” he asked.
I waited, still not sure what to say. I jerked my hand from my coat pocket, a small crucifix held clenched in my fist.
“I know what you are,” I said, my voice little more than a whisper. I stretched my arm in front of me and stepped toward Presley. “I know what you are,” I repeated, my voice stronger.
The smile faded from Presley’s face. He stared at me, a blank stare like that of a corpse with its eyes still open. The shop grew quieter. Even the traffic from the highway outside faded, the only sound that of my breathing.
Presley burst out laughing. Not the country-boy chuckle I’d come to know over the past several weeks, but a hard-edged soulless laugh.
The sound startled me. I flinched, then stiffened in a show of false bravado.
Presley laughed harder, tears welling in his eyes. He reached out and brought his hand down over top of the crucifix, pulling it from my hand. “And just what do you think I am?”
*****
To read the rest of Interview with the Barber, and to get the entire collection THE ALCHEMIST & OTHER DARK TALES, for just 99 cents, for your Kindle go here. To download to your Nook go here.
We've seen evil vampires, funny vampires, even sparkly vampires, but I daresay you've not seen one like Robert Presley. And you can read the full tale Interview With The Barber in my collection THE ALCHEMIST & OTHER DARK TALES, on sale now for just 99 cents.
And now, from Interview With The Barber...
*****
I decided the only way to figure out what was going on was to do a little spying. I drove by the shop Friday night long after Presley had closed and gone home. I checked around the building in the dark with my cheap key chain flashlight and found two small windows in the back, completely hidden by two overgrown bushes.
The next night – Presley keeps his shop open late on Saturdays – I parked at an abandoned grocery store a mile down the road and walked to his shop as dusk fell. It was dark by the time I reached his place, so I snuck between a few cars parked in the lot then slipped around the building. I ducked in between the bushes and peered through the windows.
For the next hour I watched Presley cutting away, a seemingly permanent half-smile on his face, his mouth moving with his idle barbershop conversation. I couldn't hear him, but I was sure he was telling more of his jokes and stories, relating the town gossip some of his customers from earlier in the day had told him.
Another half-hour passed and there were just two people left with Presley – an old gruff of a man with a bushy gray beard, dressed in dirty overalls, was climbing into the barber's chair and a younger man, probably my age, was sitting in the waiting section flipping through a magazine.
The old guy sat in the chair, Presley decked him out in the barber's apron and started cutting away at his hair, his mouth moving in what was no doubt a monotonous litany of meaningless chit-chat. I prepared to leave, disgusted with myself for having wasted the evening. Then it happened.
Presley stepped away from the old guy, put his clippers and comb on the shelf and then stepped back to the chair. The old man never moved. The young guy sat still, the magazine slipping from his hands to the floor. He made no move to retrieve it.
Presley stood with his arms by his sides. His mouth twitched, his whole face convulsed. His mouth stretched wider than humanly possible, his lower lip peeled back, and two giant insect-like mandibles protruded through his gums, growing upward over his top lip, giving his lower face a bug-like appearance.
Presley leaned over the old man, moved the beard aside and slid the two mandibles through the man's skin, into his neck. I lost track of time, watching as Presley drank the man’s blood. He stood, pulled a tissue from his pocket, dabbed a little blood from the man's neck and let the man's beard fall back into place. He stepped toward the young man in the waiting chair. I wanted to scream, to smash through the windows and warn the man, but I watched. Somehow, I had the presence of mind to glance at my watch this time, just as Presley began draining the blood from his second victim. When he finished I looked at the watch again – it seemed as if he had been there long enough to drain the man dry, but he had been drinking the victim's blood for less than ten minutes.
Presley again pulled the tissue from his pocket, dabbed at the man's neck, then bent over, picked up the magazine and placed it in the man's hands. Presley walked back to his shelf, picked up his hair-cutting utensils and turned back to the room. When he did his face had returned to normal – the round, full, flushed face of a man who had just fed. He walked to the bearded man, began snipping at his hair, his mouth moving again, no doubt with more gossip. A minute later the bearded man was talking, the young man flipping the magazine pages.
I sat on the cool, barren patch of dirt under the bush, not sure what to do.
What could I do? No one would believe me if I tried to tell what I'd seen. I had to confront Presley. Tell him I knew what he was. I would do it Monday.
I slept little that night and the next. I was nervous about confronting him, afraid to fall asleep, some little fear deep inside me said he already knew what I had seen, that he'd burst through the door to my apartment any moment. He never did, but by Monday I was exhausted from thinking, and worrying, about it all weekend. It took all the concentration I could muster to get through the day.
After work I drove to Presley's barbershop. Standing outside the door I checked through my coat pockets for what must have been the fiftieth time to make sure I had everything. I took a deep breath, opened the door and stepped in. He was sitting in his own barber’s chair, alone, looking as if he expected my visit.
“Back so soon? I must not be cuttin’ your hair short enough.” He chuckled as he spoke, a laugh that once seemed a simple country chortle. Now my skin crawled at the sound.
“I’m not here for a haircut,” I said, my mouth dry, my voice quivering.
Presley stood, stepped to the side of the chair and patted the brown vinyl cover.
“Climb on up and–”
“No!” I screamed, cutting him off in mid-sentence.
He grew quiet. I paused, not sure what to do next. Presley stepped back in front of his chair, slowly sat down and smiled broadly.
“Well, then, what can I do for you?” he asked.
I waited, still not sure what to say. I jerked my hand from my coat pocket, a small crucifix held clenched in my fist.
“I know what you are,” I said, my voice little more than a whisper. I stretched my arm in front of me and stepped toward Presley. “I know what you are,” I repeated, my voice stronger.
The smile faded from Presley’s face. He stared at me, a blank stare like that of a corpse with its eyes still open. The shop grew quieter. Even the traffic from the highway outside faded, the only sound that of my breathing.
Presley burst out laughing. Not the country-boy chuckle I’d come to know over the past several weeks, but a hard-edged soulless laugh.
The sound startled me. I flinched, then stiffened in a show of false bravado.
Presley laughed harder, tears welling in his eyes. He reached out and brought his hand down over top of the crucifix, pulling it from my hand. “And just what do you think I am?”
*****
To read the rest of Interview with the Barber, and to get the entire collection THE ALCHEMIST & OTHER DARK TALES, for just 99 cents, for your Kindle go here. To download to your Nook go here.
Friday, May 3, 2013
The Alchemist & Other Dark Tales now available
What's the old standard, absolute power corrupts absolutely?
I don't know if that's entirely true, but I do believe unchecked power, even if meant for good, can have tragic consequences.
Such is the case in my novella, THE ALCHEMIST.
We have all watched in horror at news reports of school violence, read in outrage at accounts of bullies making life so miserable for their classmates that they drive some to suicide, others to lifelong depression. If you're like me, those emotions are usually followed by rage, or at the least righteous anger, generally directed at the perpetrator and those around him (or her) who did nothing to intervene.
Then again, what would we do if we were there, in the school, or the community, where these tragedies take place? What would you do?
That's the question facing Denny Harris, a teacher at Devane High School. From his position at the front of the classroom, Denny sees the worst that happens in our nation's schools -- the bullies, the thugs, the killers-in-the-making, all preying on those who are innocent, weaker, in need of protection.
Denny is also more than he seems, descendant from an ancient race of beings with the ability to harness a mystical power few know exist. Their purpose is to protect the innocent.
As Denny learns, sometimes it can be difficult to determine who truly needs that protection, and guessing wrong can have tragic consequences.
THE ALCHEMIST is a tale of supernatural horror that examines the question of who really needs our help, and how some modern efforts at addressing teen violence could be misguided. The novella is part of my collection THE ALCHEMIST & OTHER DARK TALES, now available for download to your Kindle here or for download to your Nook here.
Thanks for stopping by.
I don't know if that's entirely true, but I do believe unchecked power, even if meant for good, can have tragic consequences.
Such is the case in my novella, THE ALCHEMIST.
We have all watched in horror at news reports of school violence, read in outrage at accounts of bullies making life so miserable for their classmates that they drive some to suicide, others to lifelong depression. If you're like me, those emotions are usually followed by rage, or at the least righteous anger, generally directed at the perpetrator and those around him (or her) who did nothing to intervene.Then again, what would we do if we were there, in the school, or the community, where these tragedies take place? What would you do?
That's the question facing Denny Harris, a teacher at Devane High School. From his position at the front of the classroom, Denny sees the worst that happens in our nation's schools -- the bullies, the thugs, the killers-in-the-making, all preying on those who are innocent, weaker, in need of protection.
Denny is also more than he seems, descendant from an ancient race of beings with the ability to harness a mystical power few know exist. Their purpose is to protect the innocent.
As Denny learns, sometimes it can be difficult to determine who truly needs that protection, and guessing wrong can have tragic consequences.
THE ALCHEMIST is a tale of supernatural horror that examines the question of who really needs our help, and how some modern efforts at addressing teen violence could be misguided. The novella is part of my collection THE ALCHEMIST & OTHER DARK TALES, now available for download to your Kindle here or for download to your Nook here.
Thanks for stopping by.
Sunday, August 19, 2012
Line-up announced for Nine Weeks of Halloween Horror
The calendar keeps moving right along, and that means we’re just two weeks away from the launch of my series NINE WEEKS OF HALLOWEEN HORROR.
For those of you who missed my last post (if you really want to check it out, it’s just below this one – scroll on down) I’ll be releasing a series of creepy little tales each Sunday from Sept. 2 until Oct. 28 in celebration of Halloween. The stories will be available at Amazon.com for download to your Kindle (and if you don’t have a Kindle, you can get a FREE Kindle reading app for you PC, Mac, or mobile device right here).
Now, as promised, the list of stories coming up in NINE WEEKS OF HALLOWEEN HORROR. I’ve included a few comments from folks who have seen the first four tales. To keep the blog from going on too long, I’ll hold back on reader comments on the final tales for a few weeks.
SUMMER’S END (Coming Sept. 2). I’m not going to tell you much about this, other than to say sometimes monsters come in all shapes. What a couple of folks have said about SUMMER’S END: “I'll get straight to the point -- I loved this … this is a great … tale.” “…reminiscent of The Cask of the Amontillado…”
THE JOURNAL (Coming Sept. 9). Ever wonder if we have any real control over our lives, or if it’s already written and we merely follow along? What a few readers have said: “Well written and original, if somewhat twisted…” “What a creepy tale. Poe? Better or at least as good as King.” “I hadn’t planned to read it today, but it grabbed me and wouldn’t let go.” “This is one hell of a story!”
PATRON SAINT (Coming Sept. 16). A killer with a dark obsession, a victim with a darker secret. Readers’ take: “The only bad thing that I can say about this story is that it made my teeth tremble and I would want to give a health warning to any reader before they read this.” “Teeth – yikes. I was hooked by this story.” “Great stuff, got me hooked from the start and never let go.”
WARREN HOUSE (Coming Sept. 23). An ancient home holds an unshakable power over a town, and a couple of newcomers find there is more than Southern hospitality behind the welcome they receive. Readers’ say: “Very cool haunted house story…Shirley Jackson meets Lovecraft…very entertaining read.” “Plays out like a Twilight Zone episode.” “Good, old-fashioned story-telling.”
THE CHOSEN, RETURN OF THE MESSIAH, and THE HEARSE (Coming Sept. 30). That’s right, folks, three tales this week. Because they’re all on the short side, I want to make sure you have enough to keep you reading for a while.
THE CHOSEN: What is a parent’s greatest fear? RETURN OF THE MESSIAH: The New Testament and the Mayan Empire both had it right. THE HEARSE: Didn’t see that one coming, did you?
WITCH HOUSE (Coming Oct. 7). A bit of friendly hazing for freshmen on the high school football team turns tragic. Sometimes the horror is of our own making.
ANYTHING FOR THE CAUSE (Coming Oct. 14). With eternity on the line, how far will a few religious zealots go for their cause?
FOR WANT OF A GHOST (Coming Oct. 21). When a magazine editor promises to find local ghost stories for a Halloween issue, he soon uncovers more than he bargained for.
A MOTHER’S LOVE (Coming Oct 28). How far will a mother go to save her child?
I hope you find a few – maybe even all – of those stories intriguing. Halloween is my favorite time of year in many ways, and horror was really my first love when I began writing. I’m excited about publishing these stories, and if you like horror (who doesn’t at this time of year?) I think you’re going to enjoy them.
Until then, check out my debut novel CLAIMING MOON. It’s available for download at Amazon.com. If you don’t have a Kindle, that’s okay. You can get a free Kindle app that lets you read any Kindle story on your PC, Mac, or mobile device right here.
For those of you who missed my last post (if you really want to check it out, it’s just below this one – scroll on down) I’ll be releasing a series of creepy little tales each Sunday from Sept. 2 until Oct. 28 in celebration of Halloween. The stories will be available at Amazon.com for download to your Kindle (and if you don’t have a Kindle, you can get a FREE Kindle reading app for you PC, Mac, or mobile device right here).
Now, as promised, the list of stories coming up in NINE WEEKS OF HALLOWEEN HORROR. I’ve included a few comments from folks who have seen the first four tales. To keep the blog from going on too long, I’ll hold back on reader comments on the final tales for a few weeks.
SUMMER’S END (Coming Sept. 2). I’m not going to tell you much about this, other than to say sometimes monsters come in all shapes. What a couple of folks have said about SUMMER’S END: “I'll get straight to the point -- I loved this … this is a great … tale.” “…reminiscent of The Cask of the Amontillado…”
THE JOURNAL (Coming Sept. 9). Ever wonder if we have any real control over our lives, or if it’s already written and we merely follow along? What a few readers have said: “Well written and original, if somewhat twisted…” “What a creepy tale. Poe? Better or at least as good as King.” “I hadn’t planned to read it today, but it grabbed me and wouldn’t let go.” “This is one hell of a story!”
PATRON SAINT (Coming Sept. 16). A killer with a dark obsession, a victim with a darker secret. Readers’ take: “The only bad thing that I can say about this story is that it made my teeth tremble and I would want to give a health warning to any reader before they read this.” “Teeth – yikes. I was hooked by this story.” “Great stuff, got me hooked from the start and never let go.”
WARREN HOUSE (Coming Sept. 23). An ancient home holds an unshakable power over a town, and a couple of newcomers find there is more than Southern hospitality behind the welcome they receive. Readers’ say: “Very cool haunted house story…Shirley Jackson meets Lovecraft…very entertaining read.” “Plays out like a Twilight Zone episode.” “Good, old-fashioned story-telling.”
THE CHOSEN, RETURN OF THE MESSIAH, and THE HEARSE (Coming Sept. 30). That’s right, folks, three tales this week. Because they’re all on the short side, I want to make sure you have enough to keep you reading for a while.
THE CHOSEN: What is a parent’s greatest fear? RETURN OF THE MESSIAH: The New Testament and the Mayan Empire both had it right. THE HEARSE: Didn’t see that one coming, did you?
WITCH HOUSE (Coming Oct. 7). A bit of friendly hazing for freshmen on the high school football team turns tragic. Sometimes the horror is of our own making.
ANYTHING FOR THE CAUSE (Coming Oct. 14). With eternity on the line, how far will a few religious zealots go for their cause?
FOR WANT OF A GHOST (Coming Oct. 21). When a magazine editor promises to find local ghost stories for a Halloween issue, he soon uncovers more than he bargained for.
A MOTHER’S LOVE (Coming Oct 28). How far will a mother go to save her child?
I hope you find a few – maybe even all – of those stories intriguing. Halloween is my favorite time of year in many ways, and horror was really my first love when I began writing. I’m excited about publishing these stories, and if you like horror (who doesn’t at this time of year?) I think you’re going to enjoy them.
Until then, check out my debut novel CLAIMING MOON. It’s available for download at Amazon.com. If you don’t have a Kindle, that’s okay. You can get a free Kindle app that lets you read any Kindle story on your PC, Mac, or mobile device right here.
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