Informal Update & Book Preview
Hello, readers! To the few of you that check this blog out somewhat consistently, you may have noticed my posts have become more.. spontaneous as of late. If you're new and just reading from the top, you'll notice the lack of new posts as well. Soz about that! I've been diverting most of my writing focus onto a longer form project- a horror novel under the working title "A Moment, Fleeting Moment".
The book is a W.I.P, obviously, but it's going to be a few things.
- An analysis on how obsession and isolation can warp the previously indomitable human spirit
- A metaphor for how unhealed trauma, if left unacknowledged, will fester and become something bigger than the event itself
- An already slightly crazy radio host's descent into pure, unbridled madness
- A love letter to the painting Nighthawks by Edward Hopper
I'm going to also post the prologue / first dream sequence in the book to show what the tone of the book is- or how the tone is at the beginning, at least. Enjoy!
A Moment, Fleeting Moment
Cold. It was a cold, crisp night as I hurried down the empty street. I was retracing the steps I had walked dozens of times before, trying and failing not to focus on the harsh air or the weight of the briefcase I dragged along. My ruffled gray suit did little to warm me, only restricting me from the potential heat I could generate by breaking into a sprint.. So I instead walked briskly towards the glow just around the corner, shivering as I felt the chill run along my spine and up to my neck. I brushed it off with my free hand and turned left at the crossroad, greeted by the familiar sight of the diner. The warmth and light from the restaurant coming into view brought with it a new chill, this time a more psychological variety. The appearance of the building, small, open, vintage- while comforting on a surface level, was familiar in such a melancholic and distressing way that it still put me on edge like a bundle of nerves. I cautiously approached, still wary of my surroundings, almost overanalyzing the outside to delay the inevitable. I scanned the overbearing and contrasting metropolis around me, the creak of metal structures overhead and faint hum of cars in the distance being the only noise I could register. I let myself get lost in the light-polluted sky above, searching through arrays of satellites for stars. I took a deep breath in through my nose, the faint smell of coffee and pastry emanating from the building.. And hesitantly turned back to face it at last.
Returning my view to the diner, I peer into the large glass window. The clerk stands scrubbing the bar, seemingly making idle chat with the two sitting on the other side. A woman dressed in red is staring past him, hand stirring a coffee cup aimlessly with a spoon as she nods along to his attempt at conversation, as opposed to the man sitting next to her, staring dead-eyed into the face of the clerk. He looks aggrieved, wordlessly judging the man as he takes a drag from his fleeting cigarette before snuffing it out in an ashtray on the counter. None of the three acknowledge me standing outside, maybe don't even notice that Iām there.
Just as I contemplate whether I should head in or not, the cold shifts towards a slow drizzle of rain, a few droplets landing onto my hat and rolling off onto my briefcase. I shiver once more, shaking off the rain with a sigh. I stand for a moment as the rain begins to intensify, surrounding me with a soft tapping against the stone path. The decision was made for me, I think as I open the door. The handle is stiff, the door seems to be set into the frame- but with a bit of force, it gives. I take my first steps inside with a shudder as the warmth envelops me and walk towards a vacant stool. Heart pounding in my chest, I set the briefcase down beside the chair and take a seat. None of the three acknowledge me, even as I ring the diner bell sitting at the counter. They remain fixated on their respective settings, though the clerk has seemingly ceased his attempt at conversation upon my arrival. I tap the bell once more, letting it ring out into silence as I wait awkwardly for service. Still no response. I begrudgingly accept that I'll have to be patient and instead turn to the briefcase, bending over to lift it onto the counter. As I look up from under the table, however, I see the clerk peering over and down at me. He remains set with the same vacant expression he had when he was talking to the couple, now aimed at me. It looks almost accusatory from this angle, though. I lift the bag up and set it down, meeting his gaze- he isnāt blinking, so I make a conscious effort not to either.
āBlack Coffee, please?ā I ask the man, expectantly. He remains silent, not breaking eye contact as he takes a few steps to his right to the machine. Drawing a mug from under the counter, he fills it only halfway before sliding it over to me. The steam from the fresh roast is comforting in a strange way- fogging up my glasses like when I was outside. Reminded of the rain, I break away from his stare and glance over my shoulder back at the window. Streaks of rain coat the glass, but it seems to have slowed to a light drizzle once more. I pause to reflect as I take in the subtle but comforting scent of the diner, the warmth of the coffee mug against my hand, the odd lack of commotion in the building. I turn back to him and the coffee, uncapping a bottle of milk next to the salt and pepper. He is now looking down, eyes resting on the briefcase, and as I pour the milk into the mug I see his eyes flicker. I instinctively dart my hand to the case, covering it protectively- spilling the milk on the counter as I do. He wastes no time wiping it up with the rag, eyes still resting on the handle and my iron grip. Just as I go to reach my other hand over onto the handle, he pushes the damp cloth against my wrist, soaking my forearm in milk and grimeā as well as blocking it from the metal grip. I try moving my hand closer, but he just wraps the damp rag around my arm tighter, keeping me locked in place. Attempting to slide it off of the table with my other hand also appears futile, as when I do he begins pulling it back in an apparent game of tug-of-war. Locked in a confrontation with the unnerved diner clerk, I concede. The feeling of grimy water and milk coating my arm is getting too much to bear, and heās starting to crush my wrist- so I let go, tumbling backwards and off my stool as he smoothly brandishes the case. I lay motionless on the floor for a moment- taking in the diner from this angle I have seen so many times. At the counter, the clerk remains expressionless, his stare returned to the fixed neutral horizon point he kept before I entered. He runs his hand along the frame of the case, rapping his fingers along the dark blue rim and shiny brass locks in an almost taunting manner. I brush myself off and return to the stool, taking a bitter sip of the now cold coffee with gritted teeth and reflecting his absent stare. As I look into his pale grey eyes, I hear a click of the case- heās unlocked the box. Words are instinctively drawn from my mouth, though nothing in particular- āDonāt!ā or āStop!ā or maybe āThatās mine!ā, but it doesnāt matter. Heās heard them all before, heās had this confrontation before. I donāt even finish those mundane words before he cuts me off with noise, noise for a change. I have never even heard him breathe, but now heās screeching. A blaring, monotone drone of scratchy noise pierces through my ears as he smiles at me and slides the opened briefcase aside, the oscillating tone threatening to make my brain bleed. I cover my ears. It does nothing. He only leans in closer, and just when I think itās all I can take, when I think I'm going to pass out from the pain..
I wake up abruptly, jolting my head up and hitting the shelf above my dingy bed. Old cassette tapes I havenāt played in years clatter off from the disturbance, pelting me as I rub my sore temples and sigh. Looking up at the wall in front of me, I stare at the painting of Night hawks hung across from the bed with a confusing mix of longing and dread- I keep returning to the diner. I can never escape it, yet I can never stay for long, booted out somehow every time.. But strangely, the screeching hasnāt stopped. I look over to the CD player sat next to the pile of radio equipment, smoking and buzzing a discordant noise. Broken!
(p.s)sst! click me if you want a spotify playlist representing the book!