Have you ever wanted to watch someone write a book? Of course not, right? Neither would I. Most people assume the creative process is boring, and those people’s bright assumption are probably correct.
No one wants to watch a writer peck at a keyboard, while they sip toxic beverages, eat strange things, or inhale conscious-altering smoke. Or worse…if they don’t partake in none of those fun activities. No one wants to see that shit (…right?).
Everyone wants to gobble the whole meal after it’s cooked. If I were to serve you a dinner roll, one delicious crumb at a time, I’m sure you’d be offended, but that’s exactly what I’m going to do…
…serve you a story…one chapter at a time.
“Tormentor” lives in a spiral notebook—an incomplete story which should probably never see the light of night. I wrote a few chapters half a decade ago. I think. I will share what’s written so far, and then…well…who knows. Anything could happen.
I’ll have to improvise new ideas, and then conjoin them into a previously existing setting, just like a mountain goat balancing upon a rocky tightrope.
- Each chapter (or part): about 500 words
- A new chapter published once a week
- All chapters will be compiled into a book (after the project is complete)
- Download “Tormentor” and read the entire story…without interruptions.
Oh! If you’re made of marshmallows, then “Tormentor” is gonna melt you into a sugary puddle. Sorry. Grab a graham cracker, or read at your own risk. Thank you.
“Do you remember the last time we were here, Kyle?” Fiora says.
He stares at the celestial lights strung across the night sky. Fiora’s question journeys through the pit of his ears and becomes lost within the cavern inside Kyle’s mind.
Two hours later, the cars on High Pine Avenue are kissing each other’s bumper. Elvish impostors chew cigarettes, swig flasks and dance between shivering cars. A rusted tailpipe burps volatile fumes.
“Come on, move, move, move…give me a break, yeah, happy holidays, pal.” Kyle says. Every inch he’s able to take, he takes, until an elf slides into the icy road. She opens her mouth—fluffy snow flakes drift upon her frosted tongue. Kyle jabs the steering wheel. “Hey, come on! Get out of the way. Go eat your snowflakes somewhere else. Damn it.”
The woozy elf waves. “Merry Christmas!”
Kyle’s frown melts down his chin. “Did you see that? What an asshole.” He says, then punches two numb knuckles into the abused steering wheel’s face.
A silvery Moon rises above Crag Heights. The mountain range bites the sky—rows of serrated peaks chew the ghostly horizon—like ancient shark teeth refusing to let go of the stars. Kyle unwraps the itchy wool scarf around his neck, then drapes it over a banister. The monthly fuck ritual doesn’t last too long. Fiora stares at the wobbly ceiling fan. Kyle huffs and puffs. The minute never dies soon enough.
Fiora yawns as Kyle sinks into the dark ocean of his self pity. He dived under the water for years, but never reached the bottom of the abyss. Kyle waits until she meanders downstairs. He shuts the bedroom door.
There’s an old revolver sleeping beside six metal slugs. Kyle takes his time loading the cylinder. He remembers purchasing the gun…Gary Grayson owned a dirty pawn shop near North Grime Street. Kyle discovered the used relic behind a glass shelf, and that’s when Gary discovered the gold ring.
“I’m not supposed to sell you those kind of toys, but I also have a feeling you’re not supposed to sell that pretty ring. Perhaps we can make a deal.” Gary said.
The gold band constricted his finger like a metal python. Kyle dropped the worthless snake onto the counter. “We can make a deal.”
Gary snuffed a greasy cigar inside a cracked crystal ashtray. “You’re a smart man.”
The memory evaporates. Kyle stares inside the two sinkholes in the middle of his face. He watches his reflection pull the trigger. Locked jaw. Determined. A white curtain drapes over those dull eyes, but Kyle never lets go of the scream inside his head. The old revolver does all the talking—a damp thunder erupts as it were a summertime storm—here one second and gone the next.
Fiora opens the bedroom door and slips inside the sludge pouring out of Kyle’s head. Old memories are splattered on the wall, while his gooey thoughts drip down a closed window.
She laughs, then sits on the floor. “You decided to do something with your life, Kyle. How long was that gun buried inside the drawer? How many times did those bullets roll and slam into each other?”
Fiora remembers the day she found the gun, and will forever remember the night she heard it.