Saturday, February 14, 2015

Stephen King's "On Writing"

     In an effort to make my reading more palpable to all of you, I grit my teeth and purchased this memoir/writing aide and have read it cover to cover now. And I have to say... it's not that bad. What I was expecting was a whole lot different than what I got. The lofty author who holds it high above your head just doesn't exist with Stephen.

Friday, February 13, 2015

Blurred Edges Chapter Three

Shaking her hand away from her head, Claire screamed as she felt the spider chew into her palm, the fangs slicing as if they were serrated knives. Martin was running up, yelling at her just to stop so he could get it off her, but she couldn’t stand still. Blood was welling up from the wound, dribbling down her arm and onto the stairs, where it began to soak into the wood with alarming speed. Warm trickling blood began to soak into her shirt as she raised her hand up and slapped the reptilian bust with a loud crack. Her hand jolted as if electrocuted and a loud crunch echoed throughout the hall, but the spider was now crushed in a pulpy mess covered in her blood, still latched onto the meat of her hand that it had been able to churn into raw hamburger. In the span of seconds, Martin was at Claire’s side, holding her hand up and carefully extracting the spider from her hand, the twin fangs stick in her palm like syringes.

Monday, February 9, 2015

Merchant of South Texas, Part Two

Bass sat with the salty loan shark, drinking from an aged bottle of cheap scotch with the odorous man. Finally, Antonio’s eyes lit up and he raised a wrinkled hand up waving over someone behind Joe. The Thirsty Devil was a small bar, and as the night passed the people of the Riverwalk flowed in and out of the dimly-lit tavern in a never ending tide. Bass looked over the back of the tall booth, looking for whoever Antonio was waving at.

Sunday, February 8, 2015

Blurred Edges, Chapter Two

Unlocking the chains around the door handles, Martin slid them off before gently dropping them down to the marble steps. The area was surprisingly clean of graffiti, not that small towns were well known for such art. Still, with all of the places that Claire and Martin had cleaned up, they’d always stumble across some form of tagging that would need a day or two of work to remove. But not counting the rotting doors, the outside was amazingly clean. Perhaps the veritable wall of vines and weeds crawling up the side of the manor prevented anyone from desecrating the building, or maybe they just hid past markings.