I'm happy to announce that my first fiction book Walden and Hyde (and Other Short Stories) is now available on Amazon. This Special Edition of the book contains early drafts of all the short stories and extra author notes, giving insight on the conception and evolution of this collection. I also invite you readers to have your own interpretation and analysis of the themes and messages of the work.Read More
Lucky. That’s what they called me. So I named myself that. My father, the owner of the hotel, he in the dark gray suit, said I should be that. My mother, standing next to my father as his business partner, reiterated I should be that. Their friends, faces I only glimpsed, for they kept twisting and turning, some yawning, some smiling, agreed I should be that. Two teenagers standing next to Mother, a brother and a sister, but siblings we were not, nodded that I should be that. The odd man in a white, billowing robe, splashing water on my bed, curtains, dresser, mirrors, and lamps, uttered a rigid invocation and prayed I should be that. They showered me with gold and silver coins, some clapping and some repeating my name, Lucky. I would bring them money.
Then they bolted through my door never to be seen again.
Creating fictional characters is one of the great things about being an author. You get to play a deity who fashions humans out of clay, wood, or even plain old flesh then dictate everything that happens to their lives. Cool, eh?
Once you become a deity, you can choose to be one of three things: indifferent, cruel, or compassionate. You can be indifferent and just use your created characters as supporting chess pieces to move along the story you want to tell. You can cruel, inflicting the worst of the worsts on your hapless children. Or you can be loving and compassionate to your fictional babies who owe their existence to you. When I wrote my novel I Killed My Friends and It Thrilled Me, I became the third and I didn't even expect it.Read More
September rain washed the mud and filth off my old body. Abandoned in a deserted valley for days, my decaying corpse would scare myself if I stumbled upon it. Worms had made it their playground. Crows had nibbled on different parts. The hollow circle in my chest was beginning to fill with water.
The time had come.
My name is Xeno Hemlock and I have a confession to make: shits have been going on in my life for the past 7 months. A lot of them don't make it past the curtain and into the world. Not that I'm trying to put on a facade or something but playing the woe-is-me game has never appealed to me.Read More