Blog Archives

If I Only Had a Name

7/27/2013

It’s fascinating to watch social trends as they unfold, shift, and pave the way for the ones to follow. People are pack animals, most following the leader wherever he or she might take them, allowing popularity alone to dictate their own choices in taste and opinion. I think about the whole Fifty Shades of Grey phenomenon, how just the right people decided the series was worth shouting about and somehow turned a mediocre-at-best collection of fan fiction into a bestseller. More recently, J. K. Rowling flipped the fate of her recent mystery novel, taking it from nowhere to the top of the charts by outing herself as Robert Galbraith.

It gets a person like me, a relative nobody, thinking about what it actually takes to stake any real claim on the author’s frontier. Moreover, how many exceptional books are going unread by the masses simply because they were never discovered by one of the ever-influential pack leaders? Popular brands sell. Stephen King could write a story about a haunted fig tree and it would sell millions.

I’ve never been popular on any front. I was the loner in school, the kid picked last in dodge ball, the girl who couldn’t start a trend if her life depended on it. How many others are there who are just like me, with much to contribute but no pack leaders touting their merits? How many potential Stephen Kings are out there who will never realize their potential simply because they lack either the right connections or the right luck to be read by someone influential enough to put them on the map?

I know nearly every author out there has faith in his or her writing, so I’m not unique in that regard. I’m not unique in feeling that I deserve my fair shot. I’m anything but unique in my desire to make my mark in the literary world.

What I am, however, is unique—period.

Is that alone worth your readership … or are you waiting for the pack leaders to tell you what the next big trend will be to follow?

0 Comments

Dan O'Brien: Cerulean Dreams

7/22/2013

0 Comments

Today, author Dan O'Brien continues his summer blog tour with a guest post on his sci-fi thriller Cerulean Dreams. Dan will be giving away a Kindle Fire and other goodies at the end of the tour, so make sure to leave a comment for your chance to win!

Welcome to the sixth day of the Cerulean Dreams blog tour. It will run until July 24th and will feature excerpts, new author interviews each day, and a video blog by the author. But first, here is the obligatory blurb about the novel to settle you into this dystopian world:

Orion, the last city of men. Deep within the desert, a secret lay waiting. Young women found dead in the street. A corporation that controls the sleep of a populace that never sees the light of day. Alexander Marlowe seeks to unravel the mysteries of Orion as he helps a young girl, Dana, flee the city. The closer they come to the truth, the greater the danger that hunts them. Follow them as they search beyond the boundaries of everything they have ever known for answers.

A few questions for the author:

Is anything in your book based on real life experiences or purely all imagination?

I often couch characters in the sentiments and personalities of people who are in my life. I hover over speculative fiction, so most of the events are purely fictional. There are some amusing places in some of my novels that were inspired by real events though….

What was your favorite chapter (or part) to write and why?

I love to write the very sad parts. I find these parts in movies tremendously interesting as well. Also, any time I get to spend time with my antagonist, I consider it time well spent.

How did you come up with the title?

My titles are born from the truncation of an entire idea into a single word, or something pithy I thought of. I have blank files of great titles that will probably never be turned into novels. This arises from a need to have a title for a book before I begin writing it.

What project are you working on now?

Some re-releases, sequels, serials, and even some all new titles. It will be a busy year.

Here be an excerpt for your enjoyment:

Chapter VI

The out-of-commission tunnel was serene darkness except for dim running lights that traced a path along the exposed electrical work. They had stepped off the beaten path almost immediately, knowing that the dead body on the train and the carnage that had ensued would draw government attention soon enough.

Marlowe shook his head as he walked, muttering to himself. “Can’t be real….” He watched all around him. Sometimes faces appeared, horrifying renditions of things resembling humanity.

Often, he would look at the dark corners and see the scurrying forms that seemed to plague his every step. He felt like they were being followed every second they walked. There was something else, some slinking force that haunted their footsteps.

“It’s the Lurking, isn’t it?” he queried out loud.

Dana did not bother to stop, her long strides like miniature leaps. “You believe me now, do you?”

Marlowe craned his neck. The air moved, swirling about as if there were something twisting in the wind. He watched the darkness, bore through it with his penetrating stare and he swore he saw it.

“Something is here.”

He drew his firearm slowly, watching as the entity moved in the corner. The folds of its body were whipping like a flag in a gale: a bloated, blackened flag that was sentient. It catapulted itself forward, taking flight. It was a great raptor of shadow that descended from consciousness.

“Down,” he roared.

He pushed Dana, his body covering hers. The entity fluttered––ripples of its being undulated like waves upon a rocky shore. Marlowe fired; the discharge of his weapon smoky and the impact meaningless as the bullets passed through the creature.

Dana turned her head, pushing away from Marlowe.

“What the hell are you shooting at?” she cried.

Marlowe watched the creature recede.

It did not possess eyes. Ripples formed a dome that seemed to bob from side to side, as if watching Marlowe. He swallowed hard with his weapon tight in his hand. His gaze firm upon its departure back into the shadow.

“There was something crawling in the corner, some kind of weird thing that floated in the air.” He looked at the gaze of disbelief upon her face and shook his head. “I know what I saw. There was something there.”

Dana moved past him despite his silent, physical protests. “I don’t see anything.”

Marlowe re-holstered his weapon, clearing his throat.

“It’s gone now.”

She raised her eyebrows in mock surprise. “Of course it is. The thing that you saw that was attacking us, that I didn’t see, is gone. Vanished just like that.”

“Right,” he answered, looking farther ahead into the tunnel. She crossed her arms as if thinking. Marlowe threw his hands into the air in frustration. “I know what I saw. You said something was following us, something called the Lurking. Maybe that’s what this thing was.”

All the mirth in her mockery dissipated. She moved closer to him, her eyes very serious. “You saw the Lurking? The Lurking was here: is that what you are telling me?”

He spoke slowly for emphasis. “I saw something.”

“The Lurking,” she stated.

Marlowe shifted uncomfortably, watching as the undead wandered back into focus. Their gaze no longer seemed steeped in harmful intent. Instead, it shone of ridicule now.

They were mocking him.

“Since you know what it looks like, you tell me. It was a giant shadow that rippled in the air and seemed very intent at getting to us. You know anything else that fits the description? Because if you do that would go miles in explaining what’s going on here.”

It was her turn to fidget.

“I do not know what the Lurking looks like.”

Marlowe scoffed, his laughter soon rolling in the high ceilings of the empty rail path. “You don’t know what it looks like? You are telling me that I didn’t see anything, but you don’t even know what that thing looks like? That’s brilliant. That is amazingly transcendent, Dana. Thank you so much for that insight.”

He turned––his laughter dissipating.

“Are you coming?”

After an hour they emerged from the abandoned tunnel into a vertical shaft that crawled toward the surface. Marlowe grabbed the iron rungs of an industrial wall ladder and pulled himself up with a huff, taking each in order. Dana waited before following, her small body easily climbing the fifteen-meter shaft.

Marlowe stopped at its apex, feeling around above him for a handle. The shaft would lead them back onto the streets of Orion; back into the race against time for which they seemed so ill-equipped. He found the handle––the slime that surrounded it something of which Marlowe would rather not know the origin.

“Where are we going?” Dana’s voice seemed small from beneath Marlowe. He wrenched on the handle, the old metal giving way to his leverage. As it finally moved free, he let out a loud breath of air from the exertion.

Light shone from above; night was giving way to day. “We are going to get some answers, since I seem incapable of coaxing them from you,” he mumbled as he pulled himself through the manhole cover and onto the streets of Orion.

The sun had begun to make its presence known. The sky was filled with reaching fingers and tendrils of its grasp, the power of the day expunging the night. He sat on the street as he looked down at her dirt-marred face. She had been quiet since their exchange in the tunnel.

“Give me your hand,” he ordered.

She did so without question and he pulled her through. As she stood, he replaced the cover with a grunt. Orion was a different creature during the day. The bright signs of the night had dissolved. The effulgent lights that spoke of necessary things were dwarfed by the golden power of the sun.

Buildings seemed less majestic as the sun shone on them. Dirty on the outside, they were covered in ash and dust that could not and would not be witnessed at night. “Orion sleeps through the day. We will have to be careful,” warned Marlowe as he looked at the buildings. Their appearance seemed more like fossils rather than advanced works of art.

“Sleeps?”

Marlowe felt for his weapon.

He did not see the crawling creatures.

Despite their general creepy nature, he had become accustomed to them; their absence did not bode well for his paranoia. “Orion is a city of the night. I am rarely awake at this hour. The visors regulate our sleep, make sure we are rested, watching our vitals and sleep patterns in an effort to make things more harmonious,” he spoke as he walked out into the empty streets of Orion, the lack of humanity disquieting.

He looked back at her.

The sun’s reach bounced from building to building, bringing ever-present light. “I am beginning to suspect that our sleep has something to do with all of this. I haven’t been able to piece together what has happened. That is why we are going to see a friend. To get some answers.”

Her tight-lipped stare revealed a woman who wanted to say more. “Where is your friend?”

Marlowe checked the buildings visually. Without access to the network, he would have to depend on knowing the city by sight. He pointed at a marble statue. Its beauty was disfigured by blackened lines of soot, marred by the inattention of the populace.

“That is the Barren Maiden. It was placed there some time ago. It was a gift from an artist to the city to commemorate the destruction of the world as we knew it, the infertile landscape that gave birth to Orion.”

Dana ran a hand over it, stepping past Marlowe.

“It’s beautiful,” she marveled.

Several hundred meters tall, she was only able to touch the feet of the statue. The woman stood facing west, away from the rising sun. Her clothes windblown, her hair ravaged about her perfect face. Her eyes looked toward the future. “The great matriarch of Orion at its center, we are a stone’s throw from Cerulean Dreams and the Pearl District. A place we do not want to be.”

“Why?” Her mind was still absorbed by the statue.

“Pearl District is home to OrionCorps main headquarters. My friend lives in the Portrait, just east of here. We should not linger,” he spoke. He started to walk east, past the statue and into a throng of smaller buildings that were painted mustard yellow.

Dana looked high into the smoky red clouds of the rising sun, seeing that the morning light hid the face of the woman. “What will your friend be able to tell us?”

Marlowe watched the terrain.

The ground seemed cracked, like it had hardened and split in places. He watched as the cracks crawled across the ground and up the side of the building, shattering the windows into broad webbed strokes. The running board of information that ran around the building did not glint in the morning light. Instead, its information seemed labored and slow.

He stepped closer to the running board, reading the information there. Normally it spoke of rising stocks, news and information that was pertinent to Orion. It was often nothing more than mindless advertising.

This, however, was different.

His lips moved as he read it, his neck pulsed: They are coming for you. They are right around the corner. They are going to get you, Marlowe. You can’t run from them. The Lurking is watching you. The board stopped and crackled, electricity arcing and leaping out at Marlowe.

“Marlowe,” she shouted.

He looked at her.

She stood a meter from him. “What are you doing?”

Looking back at the board, he saw that it was simply spewing information about stocks, useless numbers running and cataloguing themselves. “I was looking at the board there. It said….”

He struggled to find the words.

“Sir, do you need assistance?”

The voice was masculine

Marlowe turned and groaned.

The crisp OrionCorps uniform seemed unfettered by the morning. His face was clean-shaven, young. He hadn’t yet drawn his weapon. Dana looked from Marlowe to the youthful officer.

Marlowe tried to shake the cobwebs from his mind. The things that he was seeing were confusing him. “No, we’re fine. We are on our way home,” mumbled Marlowe and then adding, “thank you for your concern.”

Dana’s fear only intensified; she felt like the exchange was slowed. The officer stared at her again, seeing her fearful face. The fact that Marlowe was twice her age and looked like he hadn’t showered in weeks gnawed at the officer.

She was a pristine young woman.

Alarms went off in his mind. He touched the side of his temple, his visor coming out only over his left eye. The blue was not as vibrant in the light of day. “What are you doing out at this hour? Aren’t you tired?”

Marlowe could hear the man’s heartbeat, the accelerated thud of fear and anticipation mixed in a dangerous concoction. “Long night, I’m just trying to get my daughter home, officer.”

“Why is your visor up?”

His voice challenged Marlowe’s sensibilities.

Marlowe’s arm itched.

The sun brought the heat with it. The smell of the rail tunnels overpowered his nostrils and he couldn’t remember the last time he slept. The little man was getting on his nerves. “I must have shut it off early. I know the way home without it.”

The officer scrutinized Dana, his half-covered face smooth, as if oiled. “Is that your father? Are you in trouble? Your heart rate is too fast, your pupil dilations read as if you were in fear for your life. Is this man taking you somewhere you don’t want to go?”

Marlowe watched Dana. Before this night, he had only seen dead young girls, their once-perfect features distorted and mangled.

He had gotten to one of them in time.

She wasn’t dead.

Dana looked at Marlowe.

She was shaking now.

Opening her mouth, no words came out.

Her eyes were glassy and wide.

“He’s….”

The world snapped.

Light became brighter.

The night was gone and with it the madness that had impaired him. There were no longer denizens from some horrific dream. He had the girl and nothing was going to stop him from getting answers. “Not her father,” Marlowe finished.

The officer turned, his weapon drawing with him.

Marlowe was already in motion. He grasped the officer’s hand as he tried to pull his weapon free. His startled look brought a sad smile to Marlowe’s face. He pulled the trigger, the weapon exploding against the officer’s leg.

Screaming out in pain, he fell back.

As he did so, Marlowe pulled the officer’s weapon from the holster and steadied it on his prostrated frame. The man covered his face, though his lips moved. He was using the visor to communicate.

The shot caught him along the left temple, shattering immediately any connection he had with the network and OrionCorps. The man twitched, the involuntary spasm drawing a panicked gasp from Dana as she hid behind Marlowe.

“Sorry kid,” he whispered as he placed the young, dead officer’s weapon inside his long coat and turned without another word.

Dana stood over the dead man, kneeling and touching his face where the round had impacted. She smoothed away the blood-soaked hair from his face. He had been handsome. She had not wanted him to perish like this, but he would have interfered. He would have undoubtedly complicated things.

The sun was in full view in the east, proud and strong. She hoped that the day would be better for the two of them than it had been for the young officer that morning.

Bio: A psychologist, author, editor, philosopher, martial artist, and skeptic, he has published several novels and currently has many in print, including: The End of the World Playlist, Bitten, The Journey, The Ocean and the Hourglass, The Path of the Fallen, The Portent, and Cerulean Dreams. Follow him on Twitter (@AuthorDanOBrien) or visit his blog http://thedanobrienproject.blogspot.com. He recently started a consultation business. You can find more information about it here: http://www.amalgamconsulting.com/.

Bitten (US)

End of the World Playlist (US)

Cerulean Dreams (US)

The Journey (US)

The Path of the Fallen (US)

The Twins of Devonshire (US)

The End of the World Playlist (UK)

Bitten (UK)

Cerulean Dreams (UK)

The Journey (UK)

The Path of the Fallen (UK)

Follow My Blog

Follow Me On Twitter

Like Me On Facebook

Would you like to win a copy of Cerulean Dreams?

All you have to do is comment on a post during the tour. Two randomly drawn commenters will be awarded either a physical or digital copy of Cerulean Dreams.

Visit http://thedanobrienproject.blogspot.com/ and follow the blog for a chance to win a Kindle Fire!

0 Comments

Words From the Grammar Nazi: Common Adjectival and Adverbial Mistakes

7/13/2013

0 Comments

She'll point out every little mistake. She'll scream at you for using comma splices and split infinitives. She has no tolerance for fragments and run-ons. Today, she's taken over the Cerebral Writer, and hate her if you will, she does know her grammar.

Today's lesson: the most common adjectival and adverbial mistakes one finds in self-published books.

Even authors aside, most people have no problem identifying adjectives and adverbs. For the small few who do, adjectives modify nouns and adverbs modify adjectives and other adverbs; adverbial phrases modify nominal phrases and adverbial phrases modify adjectival phrases. What many authors don’t know, however, is how to use all of them the right way.

Adjectives v. Adverbs

While most writers know the rules, many seem to forget them when it comes to a number of common words. Take the following sentence, for example:

She talked too loud.

Here, “loud” modifies “talked;” however, “loud” is always an adjective, so it needs to be replaced with an adverb:

She talked too loudly.

Now, there’s still a way to use “loud” here, but we’d need to change the verb to change in a way that shifts the modification to “she,” as exemplified in the following:

She was too loud.

Other common adjectives commonly used in place of adverbs are slow, real, heavy, nice, good, and bad. For example:

She was real smart (wrong). / She was really smart (right).
It rained heavy today (wrong). / It rained heavily today (right).
Play nice (wrong). / Play nicely (right).
You did good (wrong). / You did well (right).
She was hurt bad (wrong). / She was hurt badly (right).

Hyphens

Although there are exceptions, a good rule of thumb when using two or more adjectives strung together is to hyphenate. This rule also applies to adjectives modifying implied nouns. For example:

The ten-year-old boy had blond hair. / The ten-year-old had blond hair.
The last-ditch effort was worthwhile.

However, if using an adverb with an adjective, a hyphen is usually (but not always) incorrect.

She browsed through the adequately stocked aisles.

In some instances, the adverb-adjective combination does require a hyphen, such as in the following example:

She browsed through the well-stocked aisles.

Multiple-word modifiers can be tricky, so always look them up when in doubt.

Commas and Adverbial Phrases

I covered this one in a previous post, but the problem is so prevalent I felt it pertinent to repeat it. An adverbial phrase is any cluster of words that modifies the main clause. It can determine how, when, why, or where the main clause is being performed.

The rule: If the adverbial phrase comes before the main clause, use a comma. Don’t use a comma if the adverbial phrase comes after the main clause. For example:

Earlier that day she went to the park (wrong). / Earlier that day, she went to the park (right).

“Earlier that day” is an adverbial phrase, modifying the main clause, “she went to the park.” Since the adverbial clause comes before the main clause, it needs a comma.

She went to the park, earlier that day (wrong). / She went to the park earlier that day (right).

Here, the adverbial phrase comes after the main clause, so it is incorrect to use a comma in this case.

While you might have readers who also do not know the rules, there is always a chance that editors, agents, or reviewers reading your work do. If you take the time to know and understand these rules, your writing will be sharper and you will be able to present it to the world with confidence and skill.

Until next time, my pretties! (Insert evil cackle.)

0 Comments

Dan O'Brien: BITTEN Blog Tour

7/12/2013

1 Comment

Welcome to the fourth day of the Bitten blog tour. It will run until July 16th and will feature excerpts, new author interviews each day, character interviews, and a casting call by the author. But first, here is the obligatory blurb about the novel to settle you into this dark world

A predator stalks a cold northern Minnesotan town. There is talk of wolves walking on two legs and attacking people in the deep woods. Lauren Westlake, resourceful and determined F.B.I Agent, has found a connection between the strange murders in the north and a case file almost a hundred years old. Traveling to the cold north, she begins an investigation that spirals deep into the darkness of mythology and nightmares. Filled with creatures of the night and an ancient romance, the revelation of who hunts beneath the moon is more grisly than anyone could have imagined.

A few questions for the author:

What is the single most powerful challenge when it comes to writing novel?

Marketing it. Sitting down and doing it has never been a problem for me. And with more than a dozen written, I think I can say that with some confidence. Marketing is what came the slowest, but is now something I feel like I have a good handle on.

What do you consider your biggest failure?

Not doing what I wanted sooner. I can hear the groans and shouts now. Yes, I realize I am only 32. I wrote my first book at 16 and was published by 20 and then gave up because there was no one waiting with a giant check. I traded in novel writing for freelance editing and copy-writing and just waited too long for my liking. Also, I never took piano lessons and I can’t ski.

Do you research your novels?

It depends on the novel. If there is something specific from a region, I am most definitely looking it up. Is there lore? Then I am there pouring through the pages. I spent a lot of years in academia, so research is not foreign to me. It can be very relaxing. Then again some people find speed metal relaxing, so it’s all relative.

How much impact does your childhood have on your writing?

A tremendous amount in terms of why I got into writing in the first place. I loved science fiction and fantasy when I was a kid. I read hundreds and hundreds of books when I was in elementary school. Had I not that voracious appetite for reading, I might have chosen a different profession.

Here be an excerpt for your enjoyment:

Chapter IV

The morgue was at the bottom of the only mortuary in the town of Locke. Agent Westlake, Montgomery, and the youthful deputy made their way through the building’s darkened interior, into the bowels of a cold stone structure that could withstand the end of the world.

Montgomery smiled. “Surprised about our simple morgue, Agent Westlake?”

“Not in the slightest. It would be ridiculous to have a separate building given how infrequently violent crimes occur in your small alcove of a town. It is efficient in a way.”

“Well at least some one appreciates…” spoke Collins as they emerged in the wide whitewashed walls of the basement. Collins was wearing her characteristic bee hive, though black butterfly clips held up random, erratic wisps that attempted to free themselves from bondage. “…what I do here.”

Agent Westlake led the crowd, looking over the walls of silver doors that encased empty chambers where the departed slept in a kind of purgatory before finding a home in the earth or the hearth, as they such desired. Montgomery and the deputy hovered near the table where a white sheet covered the bumpy, uneven terrain of a body.

“How many homicides?”

The sheriff and deputy looked over at the agent with mute glimpses. “Homicides, Agent Westlake?”

Lauren touched the cold metal of the human cabinets. “In Locke or surrounding towns. How many deaths of unnatural causes have you had?”

Montgomery shrugged.

“One a year, maybe every two or three.”

“And now two in 48 hours. Perhaps there is something to that.”

“Perhaps.”

Collins, her thick glasses decorated with rings of silver balls interlinked to form a chain, pulled back the sheet that covered the woman. “We still don’t have an identification, but what we do have is cause of death.”

Montgomery crossed his arms and the deputy scratched his head. Westlake lingered over the body as the sheet revealed what might have once been a woman. The dark hair was pulled back and laid down beside her pale skin like wet carpet. The make-up was reduced to heavy indentions in the skin from prolonged use.

Her breasts remained a testament to their creation and construction by the hands of man. Lines along her stomach announced more cosmetic alterations. Lauren reached out and touched the pink wound; deep lacerations carved her chest cavity.

“Did you swab the wound?”

Collins lowered her head, looking over glasses. “No, we here in the north don’t know nothing about our business. We just put the bodies in boxes up here.”

Lauren smiled at the woman, chagrinned.

“My apologies, Dr. Collins.”

Collins smiled. The use of a formal title allowed everything to be forgotten. “We did a full autopsy, sent out for toxicology and swabbed the wound for particulates. What is it that you are looking for?”

Lauren placed her hands on her hips. “Whatever did this used a weapon. Knowing the material and construction, we might be able to limit our focus.” The sheriff coughed and Lauren looked down. “Of course, I mean the scope of the sheriff’s investigation. I am merely shadowing.”

“Couldn’t it have been an animal?” echoed the deputy, his face the very picture of absence of thought. “I mean the wounds look like they could have been from a wolf or bear or something.”

Lauren looked to Montgomery and he nodded, giving his silent approval. “If it were animal there would be other markings, not just a singular, purposeful wound. A deathblow as it was. Animals rip and drag. And usually a low chest wound would indicate knowledge of anatomy. A predator would have gone for the jugular.”

Collins replaced the sheet. “We should have the reports back in a couple of weeks.”

“Couple of weeks?”

Montgomery intervened. “Things work a bit slow up here. We have to send the reports out. Get processed somewhere else and wait for results.”

Lauren touched a hand to her mouth in thought, stepping away from the table. “Would it be a terrible insult if I tried to expedite your wait time, sheriff?”

Hands in pockets, he shrugged. “Not at all, Agent Westlake. I would say that would be a very kind thing to do. Go a long way toward that cooperation and professional courtesy you were looking for.”

Lauren smiled tightly and withdrew her cell phone from her coat. “I will see what I can do.”

Dominic McManus walked through the old farmhouse filled with barren walls and aged paintings. There was an unsophisticated smell, a sense of the rustic enhanced by the wilderness. Wood planks beneath his feet alternated in sound, creating a symphony of rhythm. The afternoon sun hid behind the gray cloud cover, creating a lining of beer-colored halos that shielded the world from luminance.

The woods were silent, tall pines and evergreens sentinels against the night that would come and the day that followed. Dark, surreal paintings were littered about the simple walls depicting creatures roaming the night, dancing a ritual beneath the moon. The living room was home to one wide, strangled rug in desperate need of cleaning.

Triangles and lines of muted light cascaded onto the antediluvian home. He walked the house: his home. Bare feet touching the ground, he moved with a grace unbecoming for a man of his considerable size. Nearly six feet, his wide shoulders were marked with long, thin scars of memories past. His chest was a mat of tight black hair that made an artistic triangle.

Sweat dripped down off of him, following the contours of his strong shoulders and slender waist. His shirt was draped over one of two uncomfortable-looking beige chairs that looked as if they had been left in the rain for a century.

His dark hair touched his shoulders, unrestrained.

“Friday,” he whispered.

A Labrador––the sleek color of night––bounded into the room. He knelt, running his hands across the side of the dog in broad strokes. “Good girl,” he whispered, allowing the dog to nuzzle his lightly bearded face. She was his sole companion by choice.

Standing again, he walked to the single oak table at the center of the room, grabbing his shirt as he walked by. He pulled it over his shoulders and sat into one of the odd-looking chairs that surrounded the table, reaching down again to attend to his friend.

The house was a silent reminder of a past forgotten. He had come to Locke for simple reasons: a life unfinished. There were ghosts of the past haunting the land. That haunted him still. Each night was a journey, a remembrance.

His kitchen was clean; no dishes in the sink. There were none of the usual signs of a bachelor. Bowls of fresh fruit, some spilled out past the rims covered the counter. There was no refrigerator, no stove. A heavy, off-white freezer lay on its side, humming softly. There was a heavy wood stove, a cast-iron pot setting atop the warm, burning embers inside. A thin string with a white packet hung from it: tea.

Moving out into the back porch, a mesh enclosure with a single chair that overlooked the backyard and the surrounding property, he contemplated the world around him. There was a rifle on the ground just beside the chair and a wastebasket with torn off days of a calendar. Each had a circled day; every marking was a shrouded secret.

He stood looking out upon the wilderness, knowing its mysteries. The murders had already spread through town. The word was panic. He knew more than he could possibly tell them.

Lauren Westlake: her name intrigued him. Born to the west of a great lake, her ancestors must have been hunters or river folk. There had been something intoxicating about her. He walked her home, made sure she made it through the night.

Things would get worse.

The whistle of the iron kettle made him turn. He stalked back into the house. The heavy muscles of his arms flexed. Veins formed an interspersed roadmap down his bicep and into his forearm as he lifted the kettle free.

The tea was poured. He carried the simple mug with him as he returned to the porch, looking out upon the still woods. He knew that they would not be still that night. Things would get much worse. But what could he do? What could be said that would not cast doubt upon his guise? He had come for a reason, for a purpose. That is what had to remain most important. He would have to be vigilant.

Lauren smoothed out the map on the wall behind the sheriff’s desk. It was littered with light blue lines and no script save for some cardinal directions. The deputy leaned against the long counter of the station. The sheriff sat back in his in chair, arms laced behind his head.

“You think there is a pattern to the attacks? I thought we needed three points to make a line. We ain’t got but two yet,” spoke the deputy as he took a drink of the stale, tasteless coffee.

Lauren placed the last tack into the map and stepped back. “Three points would make a perfect line. But we are not looking for a line. We are looking for a connection, deputy. Until we get those toxin and particulates screens back, which by the way, I managed to shave off some time. We should have them in a couple of days. But until then, we need to see if we can’t figure out what we have here.”

“You think there is going to be another murder, Agent Westlake?” said the sheriff, emotionless.

“I believe there will be many more before all of this is said and done.”

The deputy placed down his coffee and folded his arms. “What exactly do you think is going to happen?”

“It starts out as a single murder. Looks like an animal attack. And then another. And another. A pattern emerges. Women and small children attacked, maimed in a fashion meant to look like an animal.”

Mrs. Meadows and the deputy covered their mouths, eyes wide. Lauren touched the map, spreading out the wrinkles and folds from years in a desk drawer. “Then it stops. As quickly as it came, it disappears. We have had at least three instances similar to what you have had here. The second victim is missing flesh, which is disturbing and new. We have not seen that before. In the past, there were missing organs, purposeful disfigurement.”

“You think it is the same person?” queried the sheriff, his monotone voice skeptical.

Lauren leaned against the wall. “Doubtful. If it is, we are talking about someone who has been killing for thirty or forty plus years, a serial situation. When I took over the investigation, it had been sitting for near a decade.”

The sheriff switched feet on the desk: dirty soles, filthy souls. “I thought you were talking about a recent case. This sounds as if it might be unrelated.”

Lauren frowned.

She had anticipated this doubt. “When I resuscitated the file from deep storage, it was because there were some strange killings in a rural area outside of a Chicago suburb. There was talk of animal attacks. Investigations produced bodies not just similar to what you have here in your sleepy town, but identical to what was sitting in those dusty case files.”

She placed her hands on the sheriff’s desk. He looked at her hands grimly. “There is a connection,” she finished. Returning to the map, she pointed at a garish red pin marked with white speckles. And then tracing a line to another tack, this one a green best suited for Christmas decorations. “We have two attacks separated by a mile, mile and a half maximum.”

“That’s a lot of woods, Agent Westlake,” whined the deputy. She did not bother to turn around. Montgomery chastised him with a reproachful glare.

“Agreed, deputy. We need more people to cover the area effectively.”

The sheriff coughed. “What you see is what you get. I could, if it was an emergency mind you, get some extra deputies from Pine County or from over in Laketown. But that would be a while and would require an emergency.”

Lauren glared at him, her wide eyes squinting to angry spheres. “Murder is not serious enough for you?”

Montgomery grimaced, his kind of smile. “Murder is most serious, even to us country folk. But, the fact remains that Collins could not identify the weapon used in the attacks. If there was such an explanation or a connection, it would be that both looked like animal attacks.”

Lauren touched her head.

The hangover had subsided to a dull throbbing, an angry itch that scratched at her last nerve. “What about the existing case files? What about my sudden presence here in Locke? Are these not sufficient to cause alarm? Certainly a hysterical woman would be enough.”

The sheriff looked at her with a crooked grin. “I would hardly call you hysterical, Agent Westlake,” he spoke with a slight ruffle.

“What about canvassing the area between the two murders with the personnel you have?”

“Seems reasonable, but I am not ready to call in reinforcements. I think that you might be overshooting your mark.”

“Can we at least have a look at the Leftwich house and then patrol the area tonight?”

The sheriff stood slowly.

He stretched out his legs as he did so.

Lifting the mug beside him, he grinned.

“You can ride with us.”

She thought to argue the point, ask for separate cars, one for each of them to better scout the area. Nodding with a tight smile, she motioned with her hand that she would follow. As they exited the station out into the cold open air of Locke, she realized the day had already begun to shrink away from the coming night. The feeling deep in her gut told her that the night would be a long one.

Bitten (US)

End of the World Playlist (US)

Cerulean Dreams (US)

The Journey (US)

The Path of the Fallen (US)

The Twins of Devonshire (US)

The End of the World Playlist (UK)

Bitten (UK)

Cerulean Dreams (UK)

The Journey (UK)

The Path of the Fallen (UK)

Follow My Blog

Follow Me On Twitter

Like Me On Facebook

Would you like to win a copy of Bitten?

All you have to do is comment on a post during the tour. Two randomly drawn commenters will be awarded either a physical or digital copy of Bitten.

Visit http://thedanobrienproject.blogspot.com/ and follow the blog for a chance to win a Kindle Fire!

1 Comment

If I Only Had a Name

Dan O'Brien: Cerulean Dreams

Words From the Grammar Nazi: Common Adjectival and Adverbial Mistakes

Dan O'Brien: BITTEN Blog Tour

Archives

Categories