TITLE: Dreammare
GENRE: YA Fantasy
I wasn’t afraid of nightmares, because the real nightmares were people. Folks like Will’s father or my old neighbor or the person who cut Paige’s face. But this nightmare looked real, like they all do.
Every line of her body was solid, down to the unusually deep curve between her jutting ribcage and her scrawny hips. When she moved up my bed, her bones cracked, and when I moved back against my headboard, she crawled halfway up my torso. Nose-to-nose, she smelled like rain, and water dripped off her hair onto my sternum. This woman had horns. Three horns as black as night and as difficult to decipher from the shadows as her inky, stringy hair.
I told myself what I always told myself, what my mother told me, what my doctor promised me, what my father used to say.
She was not real.
But she grinned when our eyes met, and I couldn’t help it. I screamed.
My mother burst into my bedroom on cue, as if she’d been anticipating another one of my midnight episodes, and as much as I wanted to tell her that I was fine now—that I understood my diagnosis—I secretly loved what happened every time she came. The hypnopompic hallucination disappeared, a side effect of my narcolepsy. A reoccurring, paralyzing side effect. They happened between sleep and wakefulness, and lasted anywhere from a few seconds to a minute.
Miss Snark's First Victim
Wednesday, August 10, 2016
Secret Agent #12
TITLE: The Dealings of Benjamin Darkly
GENRE: Adult Speculative Fiction
Ben could say with pretty good certainty the cooking lessons he’d given his buddy the boogeyman weren’t so effective.
Merril was kneeling on a barstool across the kitchen island from Ben, humming an old Stones tune, grinding with his hands a pinkish-brown mixture in a glass bowl. Every few churns he glanced up and bared his teeth -- a smile, for Merril anyway. His eyes, a pair of cruelly unequal lumps of coal set close to his beaked nose, glittered with tremendous glee. Granted, his approach to baking wouldn’t fly at the barbeque shack Ben owned outside of town, but hey. They were home, and the thought was all that mattered.
“You know,” said Ben, “I’m not sure if you’re eating them, pocketing them for the lean times, or just dropping them on the floor, but there are a bit too many eggs missing from the carton.” He counted three remaining in the Styrofoam jumbo pack by Merril’s workstation, and could have sworn there were eleven a couple of minutes ago.
“Well, I’m not sure what you’re trying to insinuate, but this recipe happens to be really, really eggy. Good protein to balance out the butter.”
“Is that right?” He leaned over the counter to get a look at the quiet chaos surrounding Merril, but he shifted on his chair to block Ben’s view of the floor.
“I believe you can quote Paula Deen on that.” Merril’s cool, smoky voice brought rise to gooseflesh beneath Ben’s long-sleeves.
GENRE: Adult Speculative Fiction
Ben could say with pretty good certainty the cooking lessons he’d given his buddy the boogeyman weren’t so effective.
Merril was kneeling on a barstool across the kitchen island from Ben, humming an old Stones tune, grinding with his hands a pinkish-brown mixture in a glass bowl. Every few churns he glanced up and bared his teeth -- a smile, for Merril anyway. His eyes, a pair of cruelly unequal lumps of coal set close to his beaked nose, glittered with tremendous glee. Granted, his approach to baking wouldn’t fly at the barbeque shack Ben owned outside of town, but hey. They were home, and the thought was all that mattered.
“You know,” said Ben, “I’m not sure if you’re eating them, pocketing them for the lean times, or just dropping them on the floor, but there are a bit too many eggs missing from the carton.” He counted three remaining in the Styrofoam jumbo pack by Merril’s workstation, and could have sworn there were eleven a couple of minutes ago.
“Well, I’m not sure what you’re trying to insinuate, but this recipe happens to be really, really eggy. Good protein to balance out the butter.”
“Is that right?” He leaned over the counter to get a look at the quiet chaos surrounding Merril, but he shifted on his chair to block Ben’s view of the floor.
“I believe you can quote Paula Deen on that.” Merril’s cool, smoky voice brought rise to gooseflesh beneath Ben’s long-sleeves.
Secret Agent #10
TITLE: This Eden Called Warsaw
GENRE: Adult Literary
Thirty-one days after his father’s death, Motl Rajsman set out for a barber in the Muranów. For a moment he wavered. His eyes watered, and he wiped them with the scratchy sleeve of his coat. He was split between two worlds: the life he had known with his Hasidic father and what was to come without Hersh’s strict oversight of the family. His father had always been confident that there was only one proper way of life.
The air was frigid as he marched up Nalewki Street, but he paused when he caught his reflection in the illuminated windows of an indoor marketplace. Overall, he was pleased with the potential he saw. At almost two meters, Motl was many centimeters taller than his friends from his religious school and even his classmates from the state-mandated primary school he had finished four years ago. Black curled sidelocks tickled his large ears. His face sprouted a scraggly black beard. He wore a square black velvet hat, a long black jacket, a stiff collared white shirt, black trousers, and scuffed black slip-on shoes. Last month, he had torn his jacket over his heart to demonstrate his grief according to custom, but his clothes bordered on shabby anyway; the lining peeked out of his coat along the frayed hem. He smiled, and the reflection showed him two rows of straight teeth. Ready for change, he turned right into a courtyard, and entered the barbershop.
He was almost overcome by the bracing smell of cologne.
GENRE: Adult Literary
Thirty-one days after his father’s death, Motl Rajsman set out for a barber in the Muranów. For a moment he wavered. His eyes watered, and he wiped them with the scratchy sleeve of his coat. He was split between two worlds: the life he had known with his Hasidic father and what was to come without Hersh’s strict oversight of the family. His father had always been confident that there was only one proper way of life.
The air was frigid as he marched up Nalewki Street, but he paused when he caught his reflection in the illuminated windows of an indoor marketplace. Overall, he was pleased with the potential he saw. At almost two meters, Motl was many centimeters taller than his friends from his religious school and even his classmates from the state-mandated primary school he had finished four years ago. Black curled sidelocks tickled his large ears. His face sprouted a scraggly black beard. He wore a square black velvet hat, a long black jacket, a stiff collared white shirt, black trousers, and scuffed black slip-on shoes. Last month, he had torn his jacket over his heart to demonstrate his grief according to custom, but his clothes bordered on shabby anyway; the lining peeked out of his coat along the frayed hem. He smiled, and the reflection showed him two rows of straight teeth. Ready for change, he turned right into a courtyard, and entered the barbershop.
He was almost overcome by the bracing smell of cologne.
Secret Agent #9
TITLE: DONOR
GENRE: YA Science Fiction
I wasn’t sure how much longer I could listen to the constant drumming of the Operator’s fingertips against the limousine’s leather seats. The man had eyes so beady that he reminded me of a rat, curled in his corner and observing the faces of the four remaining passengers — my father, our guards Sergei and Clifton, and myself — without so much as blinking. While he appeared to scrutinize every one of us, his stare held mine for a moment longer than necessary.
“While you will be spending nearly a month in their presence,” he said, “it is important to remember that no bonds of any sort should be formed with the patients. Despite how life-like they may appear, please remember that t he patients are far from human. They exist for one purpose and one purpose alone.” Each individual word was spoken like a sentence, enunciated to the last point. I couldn’t help but spare a glance at my father, sure that he wouldn’t appreciate the Operator speaking as though we were unforgivably inept.
“I assure you,” my father’s voice cut through the air like a whip. It was thick with an obnoxious sort of pride he liked to use whenever he was attempting to sound official. Every time I heard it, I couldn’t help but gag a little. “That will not be an issue. We are well informed on the patients. I am, after all, one reason Donor exists in this capacity, Charles.”
GENRE: YA Science Fiction
I wasn’t sure how much longer I could listen to the constant drumming of the Operator’s fingertips against the limousine’s leather seats. The man had eyes so beady that he reminded me of a rat, curled in his corner and observing the faces of the four remaining passengers — my father, our guards Sergei and Clifton, and myself — without so much as blinking. While he appeared to scrutinize every one of us, his stare held mine for a moment longer than necessary.
“While you will be spending nearly a month in their presence,” he said, “it is important to remember that no bonds of any sort should be formed with the patients. Despite how life-like they may appear, please remember that t he patients are far from human. They exist for one purpose and one purpose alone.” Each individual word was spoken like a sentence, enunciated to the last point. I couldn’t help but spare a glance at my father, sure that he wouldn’t appreciate the Operator speaking as though we were unforgivably inept.
“I assure you,” my father’s voice cut through the air like a whip. It was thick with an obnoxious sort of pride he liked to use whenever he was attempting to sound official. Every time I heard it, I couldn’t help but gag a little. “That will not be an issue. We are well informed on the patients. I am, after all, one reason Donor exists in this capacity, Charles.”
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