symbolic 11: cake
I'm watching my wife fall asleep. It only takes her a few minutes and then her breathing becomes regular and her hand falls away from mine. I give her another minute to fall off the ledge and into deep water before I slip out of bed and creep downstairs to my office.
I can steal three hours a day. Two during the train ride commute and one after everyone goes asleep. This hour at night is the one where I get to have all the reference books and the Internet at my disposal. This the hour when I can focus a bit more on getting out of the prose tar pit. Of course, this sixty minute window happens at 11pm when I've been up for nearly twenty hours and most of my synaptic connections are firing with the accuracy of a 30 cent water pistol at ten feet. But it is an hour that is all mine and I take it.
During the day, my body is in this same position, staring at the computer screen. But I'm not doing the fun stuff; I'm wading through emails from people who think I exist to catch the glorious shit that is going to fall from their ass and save the company; I'm reiterating the same instructions a hundred times over to the same people who couldn't be bothered to read the how-to the first fucking time I sent it to them. I am, in short, an office drone. 8 to 5, my creativity drains down into my heel and tries to escape out the iron hatch. I am dead until 5pm.
It's 11.30pm. I've been waiting all day to kill the two men in black who have popped up in the kitchen. I've got a fun plan that involves an explosive package under the car in the driveway. I can't wait to get them out there. Just a few more lines. Give them that phone call. Come on, pick up the damn phone.
---
The blonde man listened to the phone, the muscles in his face relaxing. "Yes," he said again. His eyes drooped and he started to sway. He nodded once more and put the phone down on the counter.
"What—" the dark-haired man started to ask.
The other man's eyes snapped open and his hand darted into his coat. The hand returned with a pistol, and he pointed the weapon at Liz. She froze, staring at the small mouth of the silencer, her mouth dry. The blonde man blinked, reacting to something he had heard, and moved the muzzle away from her.
He fired twice, put the hot barrel of the weapon in his mouth, and pulled the trigger a third time. His body hit the floor at almost the same time as his partner's.
---
It's 11.45pm. I have to get up in five hours for another day being a worker bee. My characters have just elected to skip the car bomb and take themselves out in the kitchen. I have been surprised.
This is why I do this.
writing
This is a reasonably comprehensive list of my published work, both virtual and physical.
THE MISFIT LIBRARY
I am Nine of Thirteen, one of the members of the Misfit Library, a writing collective which puts out a quarterly journal of our respective work. We are scattered across the globe and determined to change the face of the planet one story at a time. The link above will take you to Misfit Central where you can acquire copies of the journal as well as read exclusive online material.
SYMBOLIC
I wrote a column for OPi8.com's Transmit blogs: journals of the new dark underground. SYMBOLIC tracked the novel I was working on, referencing the process and the research materials which mad up the backbone of the work. In addition, SYMBOLIC busied itself with ruminations and considerations on the nature of language and communication. And a wee bit of mythology. The first 100 entries of SYMBOLIC can be found here on this site as well as at OPi8.com.
LITERARY REPRESENTATION
I am represented by Scribe Agency as my literary agents. Please contact these gentleman if you have any queries about my work.