Fantasmagoria is finally available
(And feel free to share this!)
I am very excited, not because I expect the book will take off as much as I am merely proud of it. It's like your child's first day of school. You don't really expect she'll be discovered as a genius prodigy, but you do hope for a good beginning to a two-decade-long educational career.
But I'm done talking about it.
To celebrate, I'm going to shut up and share one of my favorite passages, which also happens to be the very beginning. Think of this as me hanging my child's finger painting on the fridge so all can appreciate its garish wonder.
And for those interested, there are links at the end.
-----------------------------------------------------------------It was a fitting place for man-eaters, murderous and silent and stocked with the dead of a hundred generations. It was a fitting place to bring the departed, even those still on two feet.
“Damn, this is heavy,” Cecil grunted as the bag slipped out of his hands and fell with a splash. The big man grabbed his end of the large, limp sack and, with a heave, helped his scowling companion lift it over the next knot in the ravine. It was doubly hard in the dark and rain, and as they stumbled through ankle-high water, it bubbled and belched a foul odor.
“What the hell is in here?” Cecil had dragged the load most of the way himself, and he was starting to tire. It had been raining for days, and filth oozed from the cemetery. It pooled in foot-sized pits the pair had tracked from the car parked just past the gate all the way down to the small crevice that cut through earth. “Vernal?”
“Why are we bringing dog food all the way out here?” Cecil grunted and heaved again.
The ravine was choked thick with knotted roots and ran crooked along the base of a shallow hill dotted with sagging granite headstones and marble statues with their arms raised to the sky in silent warning.
“What is this place?” Cecil was stout with thin eyes and a fat lip. He wiped the rain from his face with his large hands. His left cheek was raked in thin, nearly healed scratches. His knuckles were well scabbed.
His companion was a stump, just over five feet with a stocky chest braced by two stubby legs like the twin barrels of a sawed-off shotgun. Vernal pointed. “There.”
A concrete slab and the yawning maw of a stone mausoleum plugged the end of the ditch. Dead vegetation hung from the opening like strips of flesh. Its open throat was deep and black and disappeared under the hill, whose sole purpose seemed to be to keep the place buried.
There was a distant rumble of thunder.
“Climb up there and help me lift this up.” Vernal pointed with a fat finger to the concrete slab, which rose three feet over the crevice.
Cecil looked up at the worn stone arch that capped the entryway. The writing wasn’t visible under the dead vines and creepers. “Why do I have to go first?”
Vernal stood straight. His eyes were round and his nose flat, as if he’d been punched repeatedly. His last shag of hair ran from the crown of his skull down the back of his head while his harelip barely covered his chipped teeth. Everything about him was filed down—everything, that is, except his forehead, which his face wore like a hat. “Cecil, how much do you weigh?” His vocal cords grated his voice like cheese. Every word was rumbling diesel.
“It’s a simple question.”
“Uh, ’bout two-fifty I guess.”
“And how much do you think I weigh?”
“Aw, come on, Vernal.”
“I don’t know, maybe a buck-sixty.”
Vernal pointed to the slab. “If I climb up there, do you think I’ll be able to lift this bag?”
Cecil looked up at the entrance again, cold and dark. “Right.” He grabbed a fistful of dead vine and pulled.
“Dammit, Cecil.” Vernal quivered. “I’m soaking wet and covered in mud. You can clear the verge later.”
“Right,” Cecil repeated. He leapt onto the slab and bent to grab the front of the heavy bag. Vernal did his best to push from the bottom, but it was water-logged—swollen and fat like a tick’s butt—and hard to move.
Cecil pulled with a roar and hefted the bag over the concrete lip. The floor was wet and he slipped and fell on his ass. As the bag collapsed on the floor, something rolled out, and the stubby man snatched it quick.
“What was that?” Cecil asked.
“What was what?” Vernal gargled.
“That!” Cecil pointed at the bulge in his companion’s pocket.
“Was that a dick? That looked like a dick.”
“What are you talking about?
“I saw it!” Cecil protested. “It was a dick! A big, fat cock. It fell out and you picked it up.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Yes, you did.”
“You must have been mistaken.”
“For fuck’s sake, Vernal, I wasn’t mistaken
.” Cecil made quotes in the air. “Oh shit, is that blood?”
The water-logged bag lay like a leaky bladder on the concrete, sagging as its weight squeezed the water from its innards. Swirling trails of crimson flowed with the water over the lip of the floor and down into the ravine.
Cecil stepped back. “Is… is this a bag of penises?”
“No.” Vernal climbed into the mausoleum and shook his hands dry.
“Well, not only penises.”
“You said it was dog food.”
“It is,” came a throaty voice from the dark.
Cecil spun around.
“You’re late.” A figure stood in shadow.
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The book is available in print on Amazon, as well as Kindle-format ebook of course. You can find an international Amazon store here:http://authl.it/1am
The Nook-format ebook is available on Barnes & Noble:http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/fantasmagoria-rick-wayne/1118880686?ean=2940149536870
If you would like a PDF copy, please email me directly.
Now on to the next project... #barnaclepenis