Please tell us a little bit about your most recent work.

My first novel is titled The Spitting Post. I would classify it as a dark fantasy with a touch of horror. It blends dark humor into the bizarre, complex journey of Vincent Carpenter as he desperately searches for the maiden in green. It is a one-of-a-kind story of love, dedication, and—most of all—unsympathetic terror. 

What draws you to writing?

As a child, my mother and grandmother read children's books to me. This sparked an interest into fiction. At age thirteen I started writing poetry as a way of expressing myself. In my thirties I transitioned into fiction writing with The Spitting Post.

Are you currently working on any side projects such as short stories, essays, etc.?

I am currently working on a collection of my poems.
 
Which topics interest you the most and why? 

Fantasy, horror, romance. Around age thirteen I was reading The Hobbit, Stephen King's It, and anything by Edgar Allan Poe. This heavily influenced me. I also love reading song lyrics.

Do you have any unique rituals? 

While writing the first half of The Spitting Post I would take a cigarette break about every hour and also sip on a iced caramel macchiato. However, during the second half of the book I quit smoking and have since limited my coffee intake.

One novelist more people should know: Who is it? 

There are so many good novelists out there that it is hard to narrow down. Brian Keene is one of them. I think he is an excellent novelist.

Do you find it difficult to get your work out there? 

Yes, but I don't give up easily. I believe that is what life is about. When you are thrown to the ground by hardship, you need to get right back up. 

Tell us about your day job or your daily activities.

 I work in an office and spend a lot of the day on the phone with customers.

When it comes to your work, where do you find your inspiration? 

Real life experiences combined with some embellishment and sprinkled with nightmares.

What would you like to tell your readers?

Thank you so much for reading. Hopefully there will be many more to come. ​

​Hiring a hooker on Christmas Eve was probably the last thing Nick Frost ever envisioned himself doing with his life. Yet, here he was, driving along Michigan Avenue in southwest Detroit on Christmas Eve, ready to blow the money his grandmother sent him on a goddam prostitute.
It was the fulfillment of a vow Nick made a year ago to never wake up alone on Christmas morning again. In 32 years of life, Nick never spent Christmas with a woman who wasn’t named Mom or Grandma. It wasn’t that he never dated. He dated plenty. Women found his geeky-golly-gee-innocence equally non-threatening and charming. However, circumstances – or was it fate? –  always played out so that Nick would be alone on Christmas. This was a curse he dealt with going all the way back to high school. It was one thing if he were simply always single going into the season. But there were far too many years when hours of Christmas shopping were already clocked, only to find out that the intended recipient of his gifts had other plans that no longer involved him. This year, however, things were going to be different. He was not going to be lonely.
Even if it meant having to pay for it.
            Following the afternoon Christmas Eve mass, Nick drifted out into the snowy night, as Christmas jazz flowed from a public radio station. His lonely self was headed toward an even lonelier downtown.
            Do prostitutes even work on Christmas Eve?
He quickly dismissed that as a stupid question. Holidays were probably prime moneymakers for the average hooker. Like movie theaters, Chinese restaurants and bowling alleys, they would certainly be open and eager for business.
            But as Nick entered prime prostitute territory along Cass Avenue on the edge of downtown, the untouched snow-dusted sidewalks suggested that it was perhaps a day off after all…or, that business was so good, there simply wasn’t enough supply to meet the demand. A couple of desolate blocks further, Nick Frost more than had his pick of the Christmas litter.
            He cautioned himself against picking up the first hooker he spotted. He didn’t want to discriminate, but he owed it to his grandmother to spend her money wisely. So he continued driving. Down one block. Then two. It was becoming clear that he had passed his best option by.
Maybe he would be alone for another Christmas after all.
He crept along for a couple more blocks. Just when he was about to give up on this enterprise all together, he spotted his Christmas angel of the night.
Up until this moment, Nick’s experience with prostitutes was limited to what he had seen in movies. Armed with only that knowledge, he decided to do his best to emulate what he remembered from movies by slowing down his car and pulling up near her along the curb.  
She appeared to be in her late 20’s. She dressed in a black leather mini-skirt with a matching long, leather jacket that – upon closer inspection – had seen better days. Though rough around the edges, she had an appealing, vulnerable beauty.
As far as Nick Frost was concerned, she couldn’t be more perfect.
 “Excuse me,” Nick asked in a chipper tone. “Are you working?”
            “Does Santa have eight tiny reindeer?” she asked.  
            “That depends,” Nick replied.
            “On what?”
            “If you believe in Santa at all.”
            “I believe,” the prostitute said. “Do you?”
            “Of course,” Nick said. “That goes without saying. However, I’m not fully convinced that reindeer really know how to fly.”
            She flashed an infectious smile, with teeth as surprisingly white as the fresh fallen snow surrounding them. Nick’s charm seemingly melted her stone exterior, before reality came roaring back.
            “So are you interested, or just interested in wasting my time?” the prostitute asked.
            Nick tried to speak, but nothing came out.
            “Look, buddy. I don’t know about you, but I sure as hell don’t want to spend Christmas behind bars. So are you buying or not?” 
            “Come on in,” Nick said.
            She entered, without a hint of trepidation. Though he knew he was as harmless as they came, he could have been a serial killer with a naïve charm for all she knew.   
He realized that in her line of work, it was risk being killed, or starve. 
            “Nick,” he said, offering a hand.
            She shook his hand. “Mary.”
            Nick chuckled.
            “What’s so funny?” she asked.
            “Mary, the Christmas prostitute.”
            “Real fucking funny,” Mary replied.
            “How much for the night?” Nick said, changing he subject.
            “$250. Basic package.”
            “Basic package? What are you, a cable provider? I’m kind of new at this.”
            “$250 gets you all the standards. The freak show shit will cost you more. If that’s your style.”
            “Okay, here’s the deal. I don’t want sex,” Nick made clear.
            “Blow job? I get it,” Mary said.
            “No. Nothing sexual. Period.”
            “Is this a fucking joke?” Mary said.
            “No. Why would it be a joke?”
            “Because this seems like a fucking joke he would play,” Mary said, with hurt frustration.
            “Who?”
            “My pimp. Who do you think?”
            “God?”          
A smile broke through her resting bitch face.
            “Is this okay? I mean is it allowed?”
            “Is what allowed?”
            “No sex.”
            “Yes. It’s allowed. But it never ends up that way,” she said with a wink.
            She smiled at him. Only this time, the warm interior beneath her stonewall lasted more than a fleeting moment.
            “Miles?” she asked.
            “10-12?”
            “No. I mean, Miles. As in Miles Davis on the radio you big dummy.”
            “I believe so,” Nick lauhged. “Jazz fan?” 
“Love jazz,” Mary replied. “Used to be a jazz pianist. Before the shit hit the fan and landed in my face.”
For the first time, Nick saw a glimpse of the real Mary. She was no longer a hired hooker. She as someone he wanted to get to know.
            “I play sax,” Nick said.
            “Best jazz instrument of them all … at least, in my opinion.”
“We should, like, totally duet,” Nick punned.         
Mary burst into uproarious laughter.
“Goddamn, I don’t the last time I laughed like this. And it wasn’t even that fucking funny.”
            “Well, there’s more where that came from. Do you like ice skating?” he added, out of the blue.
Mary laughed again.
            “Are you serious?” Mary asked.
            “Why wouldn’t I be?” Nick replied.
            “I never ice skated before.”
            “That’s one less time than me, Nick said. “And it was a long time ago.”
            “How did it go?” Mary asked.
            “I broke my leg.”
            “Well, if that’s what you want to do, you’re the boss.”
            “Just don’t call me boss.”
            “Whatever you want, Nick.”
            “What about you, Mary? What do you want to do?”
            “Ice skate,” she said with a coy smile.
            With the terms of their transaction negotiated, they over to Campus Martius, a small park nestled in the heart of downtown, highlighted by an ice skating rink presided over by a giant Christmas tree, surrounded by a city covered in dark despair. A dozen or so skaters circled around the ice as Christmas music blared out of muffled speakers.
They got their skates from the rental center, then laced up. Nick noticed that Mary’s laces were too loose and tightened them for her. She smiled warmly at his innocent gesture. Nick wondered how long it had been since a man did anything for her that didn’t involve his penis. He struggled to shake this thought.
            “Thanks,” she said.
            “Ready?” Nick asked. She nodded in an unsure manner, then froze in horror upon her first step, clutching onto Nick’s arm for dear life.
            “Are you okay?” Nick asked.
“I’m fine,” Mary said. “Just a bit nervous, that’s all.”
Fat, dirty perverts was probably a piece of cake compared to ice-skating.
She continued to use his arm for support as they headed out to the ice as Nat King Cole belted out “O Come all Ye Faithful.” The rink was filed mostly white suburban families and couples, making Mary the minority, despite the paradox of being smack dab in the heart of a city that was almost 90% black.
Nick led Mary to the ice. He entered first and offered his hand to help her onto the ice. She wouldn’t budge.
 “Just take my hand.”
“I’m scared.”
“You’ll be safe.”
Reluctantly, she took hold of his hand. She used her other hand to hold on to the railing for dear life.  Slowly, but surely, she got the hang of it as snowflakes danced around them. They both fell often, but was okay.
When they were done, they headed to the nearby Lafayette Coney Island – a  Detroit institution trapped in time since the roaring 20’s. To Nick’s surprise, Mary had never been there. And they had the place all to themselves, accompanied by Ella Fitzgerald’s mournful “Have a Merry Little Christmas”.
As they chomped on Coney dogs, they un-spooled both the highlight and lowlight reels of their lives, their cares and their fears. The good. The bad. The ugly. And everything in-between. Nick couldn’t remember ever being on a date that seemed so effortless.
It was worth every penny.
Mary explained how she stopped dating in “real life” years ago, but the nature of her job required her to always be a good date.
“Fucking is easy part. Pretending to be interested in the intellect of the rich sleaze ball that I’m accompanying to a dinner party or corporate function is the hard part.”
Nick wasn’t sure if he should laugh at this or not. So he landed somewhere in-between a no man’s land of smile and pity.
“But somehow with you …” Mary began, then paused.  “I don’t feel like I have to pretend. Though, I’ve certainly been duped before. So I don’t even know why I’m telling you this.”
“You don’t have to worry about being duped by me,” Nick said.
“Promise?” she asked.
            “I still can’t believe you have never been here,” Nick said, just as she took a giant bite out of her Coney.
Mary waited until she swallowed.
“Well, when most of your dates involve a bed, you miss out on all sorts of shit.”
She elaborated that when it came to motels and hotels, from the seediest, to the swankiest, she had seen them all. Her clients spanned all economic demographics. And even some of the richest clients insisted on taking her to some of the poorest-looking motels, just as some of the poorest somehow managed to scrape up the funds to take her to some of the richest. But aside from that, Mary spent most of her life from a horizontal point of view.
 “Can I ask you a very personal question?” Nick asked.
Mary rolled her eye in anticipation.
“You can, but it will cost you.”
            “I’ve always wondered…” he awkwardly paused. “What do prostitutes do when they are on their…”
            “Period?”
            Nick nods. Mary chuckles.
            “It depends.”
            “On what?”
            “On the client. Some clients actually pay more for it.”
            “Are you serious?”
            “Trust me. You don’t want to know the kinds of things customers will pay for. Some of us will do anything if it means a buck. But I have my limits.”
            “Anal?”
            “Shit and piss,” Mary declared.
            “You mean …”
            “As in shitting or pissing on. A two way street.”
            One of the cooks flashed us a look of disgust, as Mary proceeded to gobble down her third and final Coney to Nick’s two. She claimed she hadn’t eaten in nearly two days. And judging by the way she scarfed those suckers down, Nick believed her.
“Do you like gambling?” Nick asked, as he picked up the tab.
“I’ve gone to plenty of casinos.”
“I’ll take that as a no.”
“Do you like gambling?”
“This isn’t about what I like.”
“Technically, it is. You’re paying, remember?”
“I have a better idea…”
After Nick helped Mary put her coat on, they headed outside, into what had morphed into a heavy snowstorm. Nick refused to let Mother Nature get in the way of what was shaping up to be a magical evening. In fact, the falling snow only added to the romance that was beginning to feel less and less like an illusion as the night wore on. The weather didn’t seem to faze Mary, either. After all, she was used to being outside.
As they began to walk, Nick took Mary by her ungloved hand. She seemed slightly surprised. He didn’t stop to think how unusual it was to take a prostitute by the hand.  
“Why aren’t you wearing gloves?” he asked.
“I left mine at a motel a few weeks back. Never had a chance to get new ones.”
“Something’s gotta be done about that,” Nick said. “Winter’s barely even begun.”
“If it’s a matter of starving, or having cold hands, I’ll take food any day,” Mary said. She had a point.
“Would you like to wear mine?” Nick offered.
“No, I’m fine. Thank you.”
She shoved her ungloved hand into her pocket.
Nick led Mary across street and into the dimly-lit People Mover station.
            “Is the train even running tonight?” Nick asked after they waited for several minutes.
            “I heard it squealing in the distance earlier when I was on the street. But maybe they shut down early.”
“We’ll wait five more minutes,” Nick said. “Then we’ll uber it.”
            “To where?” Mary asked.
            “To be determined,” Nick said with a smile, hoping that he didn’t come across as too undecided – or unintentionally creepy. Mary’s steely, stoic expression didn’t indicate one way or another. Nick figured compared to a lot of her clients, he must have seemed pretty normal. Then again, how many clients hire her without the expectation of sex? That alone, might have put him in the creepy category. If it did, she certainly didn’t show it.
And just as five minutes were up, the train screeched into the station. They climbed aboard the empty train. As would be expected, they had the whole train to themselves.
“The train to nowhere,” Nicholas said.
“I got raped on this train once,” Mary offered, turning several moments of awkward silence into something even more awkward, as the train clobbered along the metallic tracks.
“I’m sorry,” he finally said after a long struggle to come up with a proper response.
“Did you report it?” he added.
“When you’re a prostitute, do you really think the cops take a rape claim seriously?”
Nick was at a loss for words. But he supposed being a prostitute had it limitations when it came to the full protection of the law, especially when you are already on the other side of the law to begin with.
After a couple of more stops, they finally reached their destination.
Nick grabbed Mary’s bare hand once again and turned down a seemingly abandoned street.
“Where are you taking me?” Mary asked. Nick sensed a bit of trepidation in her voice, as though, perhaps, she been down this street once before with mixed with results.
“We’re almost there. You can hear it,” as the sound of jazz slowly filled their ears.
A block later, they were standing at the entrance of Cliff Bell’s – an old school jazz club where the tables were round and the jazz was hot.
“Are we going here?” Mary asked.
“Is that okay?” replied Nick.
She smiled. “You have no idea how much I was hoping to be brought here by somebody.”
Nick led Mary to a table in the back. The club was surprisingly full, considering it was Christmas Eve.
            Nick ordered his go-to cocktail – a 7 & 7. Mary ordered a Mai-Tai. Between their first drink and last, their topics of conversation knew no limits – as improvisational as the jazz itself.
After they compared their favorite jazz artists, they segued into their childhoods, which couldn’t be more vastly different. Nick was raised in a stable home environment with two loving parents and quarreling siblings.
And white.
Mary, meanwhile, grew up in a single-mother household with siblings that all had different last names.
And mixed.
Nick got in trouble for getting an occasional C.
Mary’s mother gave two shits whether or not her daughter went to school. And because of that, she was going to school part time by the time she reached the 10th grade and dropped out in 11th. She’d been playing catch-up ever since and quickly abandoned her dream of being an elementary school teacher the moment she slithered down her first pole at the age of 18, which – following a series of unfortunate events – indirectly led her to the wonderful Nick Frost on this particular Christmas Eve.
Nick’s childhood was as stable as they come. His adult life was no different (minus a relationship). His life was too predictable. Too boring. From his house in the suburbs to his vanilla career as a high school teacher, he couldn’t be more conventional. For once, he was doing something about it.
Though he was well aware that hiring a prostitute could have negative consequences in regards to his job, but following years of bad luck, loneliness eventually outweighed moral rationality.
Before long, words were no longer necessary, as Nick held Mary snugly against him. As Mary nodded her head to the music, Nick tried to convince himself that this just a “normal” date … that this was real life – not purchased life. Objectively, once he got past the reality of the situation, he actually saw her as a suitable partner, on so many levels.  The last thing he wanted to do was shatter the illusion.
            “Care to dance,” Nick asked. Mary nodded.
To the casual observer they looked like any other couple madly in love on Christmas Eve. It felt good. And though he couldn’t be sure, he sensed she felt the same way.
Shortly before midnight, they headed back out into the stark reality of a Detroit night, where the only thing they could see before them was a white wall of falling snow.
Falling on the streets that were home to the Marys of Christmas past, present and future.
“Should we Uber it?” Nick suggested. “Or would you rather walk?”        
“Uber. If we can find one. We should probably head over to Woodward.”
So they did. But nobody seemed to be working on a snowy, Christmas Eve night.
There were no cabs to be seen, either.
“Now what?” Nick asked.
“I guess we walk.”
Suddenly, church bells everywhere chimed midnight. Christmas had come.
“Merry Christmas,” Nick said.
“Merry Christmas.”
They hugged. And then a Christmas miracle in the form of a lone cab. Nick waved it down and they entered. Whether his car was still where he left it would require a second miracle.
Yet, there it was. Covered in a blanket of snow. Too much hassle for a thief to deal with. 
Nick opened the door for Mary and started the car, then grabbed his ice-scraper.
            “I hate winter,” Nick said as he re-entered the car.
            “At least you got a car to scrape off,” Mary said, putting things in perspective.
            “Sorry. I wasn’t thinking …”
            “Actually, I have a car. Newer than yours, actually.”
            “Oh,” Nick said, embarrassed.
“You know what happens when you assume …” Mary began, before she laughed in a way that made Nick feel better about his blunder.
            And with that, hey were on their way. The drive back to Nick’s home in the neighboring suburb of Dearborn was about twenty minutes in normal driving conditions. In a blizzard, the commute was closer to an hour, as the car slipped and sloshed through the unplowed interstate. The wall of snow made visibility all but zero, but thankfully, they had almost the entire road to themselves. Accompanied by the soothing tones of Johnny Mathis walking in a winter wonderland.
Nick noticed a hint of apprehension poking out of the otherwise steely exterior of her face. He hoped that she wasn’t wondering whether she had fallen into the trap of a sociopath.
He imagined she couldn’t help but feel this way every time she entered behind a closed door. Or, was just become immune to it?
Then again, Nick had every right to be as worried as she was. After all, she was probably more equipped to fight him off, than he was to defend himself against her. Furthermore, he wondered just how wise it was to bring her back to his house. He never even considered gong to a motel. It would take away form the good, old-fashioned, Thomas Kinkade Christmas-at-home he was dreaming of. They would both just have to trust each other.
            To help ease any concerns, he raised the volume on the radio. Noting could be less intimidating than that Johnny Mathis.
When they crossed over the border separating Detroit from its suburbs, the roads suddenly became clear – and it wasn’t because there was less snow.
            Nick finally pulled up into the driveway of his modest ranch, just past one o’clock. A lonely strand of blinking Christmas lights greeted them, along with a vintage plastic snowman and a Santa, led by eight tiny, plastic reindeer.
            “You don’t have any kids, do you?” Mary asked.
            “Of course not,” Nick said.
            “And you live here by yourself?”
            “Yeah. Why?” Nick asked.
            She nodded toward the reindeer.
            “Guess I’m just a kid at heart. And those things belonged to my parents. This used to be their house and …,” Nick trailed off.
            “Well, I think it’s great you keep the tradition alive,” Mary said.
            Nick smiled at her compassionate sincerity. This, he did not expect.
When they got out of the car, Nick led Mary by the arm up his sidewalk. He felt her momentarily tense up as she approached the unknown that existed behind his door. However, as soon as he opened it and invited her in, any remaining trepidation melted away.
Mary appeared awestruck by his retro-vintage decorated living room.
            “Have a seat,” Nick offered, gesturing toward a worn, but inviting loveseat. As she made herself comfortable, Nick put a Dean Martin vinyl on a hi-fi console turntable, then ignited his gas fireplace, accompanied by Deano’s velvety-smooth vocalings.
            “It’s like stepping back in time,” Mary said. “Was this all your parents, too?”
            “No,” Nick said. “They had all new stuff. I sold it and bought all of this at a few thrift shops downtown.”
            “Very nice. All you need is a smoker’s jacket.”
            “I got one,” Nick said. “Want me to wear it?”
            Mary laughed. “Sure, but you’re the client. It’s up to you.”
            “Too bad I don’t smoke,” Nick said with a wry smile. “And honestly, I have no idea where it is.” Nick considered looking for it, before realizing that looking for it would mean leaving Mary unattended for too long. As much as trusted her – or at least thought he did – he knew he shouldn’t let his guard down. He assumed she felt no different. The only difference was, she was used to placing herself on safety’s edge.  
“Wine?” Nick asked, placing a tray of mixed nuts and chocolates on the coffee table in front her.
            “Sure.”
            “Is Boone’s okay?” he asked.
            “Fine with me,” Mary said.
            “I’m joking.”
            “Ain’t nothing wrong with Boone’s,” Mary said.
 “White or red?”
            “Red,” Mary said. “It is Christmas, you know.”
            Nick stepped into his kitchen and returned with two Christmas-themed wine glasses and a bottle of cheap Merlot. At least it had a cork.
Nick sat down on the sofa, leaving a comfortable distance between them.
“You can sit closer if you’d like,” Mary said, catching Nick by surprise. 
Nick obliged, then got to work on the cork.  But the cork had other plans. It refused to budge. He hoped Mary wasn’t watching this, but her laughter said otherwise.
“I got this,” Nick said, still struggling. Mary began to laugh even more. Tiny cork particles fell into the bottle. Eventually, he succeeded. Mary applauded. Nick took a bow.
“Wait till you see my next act,” Nick said, pouring the wine.
“I can only imagine,” Mary said.
Nick carried the wine glasses over to Mary.
“Sorry about the particles,” Nick said, referring to the floating pieces of cork in the bottle.
“Fiber,” Mary said, taking the glass from him. He sat down next to her and raised his glass for a toast.
“Merry Christmas,” he said.
“Merry Christmas,” Mary said, tearing up. Nick could tell that she was trying to hide it.  
“Are you okay?” Nick asked.
            “I’m sorry. I’m fine,” Mary said as Nick reached over, wiping away her tears. She took another sip of wine, regaining her composure. Suddenly, she began to laugh.
 “What’s so funny?” Nick asked.
“Nothing. It’s actually more sad than anything. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have cried like that,” Mary said.
“Why not?” Nick asked.
 “It’s just that, it’s been so long since somebody wished me Merry Christmas. And meant it.”
“Haven’t you worked on Christmas before?” Nick asked.
“Every year. But do you think most of my customers give a shit that I have a merry Christmas?”
“It just seems like wishing you a merry Christmas on Christmas would be the natural thing to do.”
“In your world,” Mary said. “In my world, nothing’s merry. And certainly not Christmas.”
            “I’m sorry,” Nick said.
            “It’s not your fault.”
            “I know. But I’m still sorry about it. Not that I have fared much better. Obviously.”
            Nick raised his glass once again.
            “Here’s learning how to muddle through … somehow.” She clinks his glass. A faint semblance of a smile was on her face.
            “What?” Nick asked.
            “It’s just that …” she stopped, cutting herself short.
            “What?” Nick asked.
            “Nevermind,” Mary said.
            “You can tell me.”
“I don’t know what it is about you, but I feel so completely safe with you. And it’s fucking creeping me out! I mean, don’t get me wrong. I have misjudged clients before – many times, in fact. But with you, it just feels different. And as much as I try convincing myself that this is exactly why I should be more careful than ever, I know deep down I shouldn’t.”
            “Well, I have some good news in store for you,” Nick said. “You are completely right.”
            “About needing to be careful?” Mary asked with rising concern in her voice.
            “No!” Nick said, realizing what he said. “I mean that you have nothing to worry about with me. I’m as harmless as a sleeping puppy. Want to watch Silence of the Lambs?”
            “Ha!” Mary said. “Real funny.”
            They sat back, taking a couple of sips of win, letting Dean Martin do all the talking until Nick finally interrupted:
“I know it must be tough, but don’t you ever feel the desire to date for real?”
“I used to try,” Mary said. “But I’ve pretty much given up.”
            “Why?” Nick asked.
            “Because I’m pretty convinced that no decent guy would want to date a … someone like me. And I’m through dating any guy who isn’t decent as an excuse not to be lonely.”
            “Fair enough. But how long can you live like this?”
            “I made it this far. Eventually, the numbness takes over, making reality much easier to live with.”
            “Some might see it that way,” Nick responded.
            “Do you?” Mary asked.
            “No.”
            “You’re just saying that.”
            “I’m not.”
            “If you did what I did for a living, you’d understand,” Mary said.
            “You’re much more than that,” Nick said.
            “Am I?” Mary asked.
            “How could you not be?”
            “I’m just a random hooker you picked up in Detroit. There are who knows how many hundreds more just like me?”
            “But they’re not you,” Nick said with earnest. “Just like you’re not them. And I wouldn’t trade you for any single one of them.”
            “If not me, it would have been somebody else,” Mary said.  “And you would have been saying the same thing to her.”
            “There’s no way to really know that for sure, is there?” Nick said.
            “Come on,” Mary said. “Just admit it.”
            “Not going to,” Nick said. “When you get right down to it, there’s no way to really know anything for sure. I’m sure neither one of us pictured our lives turning out exactly like they have. Do you?”
            Mary shook her head.
            “Yet look at us,” Nick continued. “This is our life. Right now. In this moment. I guess we can’t really complain, can we?”
            “Right now … tonight …  no,” Mary said. “But tomorrow will come again. And it won’t be you. It will be some random dick attached to someone with a few bucks to spare.”
            “It doesn’t have to be that way,” Nick said.
            “But it is,” Mary said.
            “Is that the life you want?”
“It’s better than being on the streets.”
“Is it?”
Mary took a long, hard sip of her wine. Nick re-filled her glass and then his, before lifted it for another toast.
“Here’s to tonight. And nothing else,” Nick said. “Not yesterday. Not tomorrow. Not even earlier today. Just this night.”
Mary clinked his glass. And they kept drinking without another word until the bottle was empty and Mary was breaking rule #1 of almost every prostitute: no kissing on the mouth.
“I’m sorry,” Nick said after the first kiss.
“Why are you sorry?”
“Because this wasn’t my intent. But the wine—“
She kissed him back before he could finish his sentence. And he felt something he hadn’t felt in a long time.
And he suddenly began to wonder if he could live up to his promise of no sex. He didn’t want to interfere with what he assumed Mary had probably come to view as a “night off.”
 “We should get to bed,” Nick suggested as his antique grandfather clock struck three. “Otherwise, Santa will pass us by.”
            Nick stood up, gently offering her his hand, before leading her to the bedroom.
            “Oh, shoot!” Nick said, stopping his in his tracks.
            “What’s wrong?” asked Mary.
            “Forgot the cookies!”
            “Cookies in bed?” Mary asked.
            “Milk and cookies. For Santa,” Nick explained.
            “Seriously?” Mary asked.
            “Of course!”
            Nick headed into the kitchen and returned with a plate of cookies and a half of glass of milk.
            “Are those homemade?” Mary asked.
            “Yep. My Grandma sent them. They’re the best,” Nick said, setting the plate and glass on an end table. Nick handed Mary a notepad and a pen.
            “What this for?” Mark asked.
            “A note for Santa. I want you to write it.”
            “You’re kidding…” Mary said, laced with curious skepticism.
            “As your client, I am requesting it,” Nick said, with a smile, hoping that he didn’t come across as threatening.
 Or, just plain crazy. 
            “Okay,” Mary said. “I’ll give it my best shot.”
            She sat down and wrote her note, before sharing it with Nick. It read: “To Santa, From Nick and Mary. Merry Christmas!”
            “How’s that?”
            “It’s perfect,” Nick said, placing it next to the plate. This was exactly what he envisioned. And though it was finally happening in reality, he tried to ignore the fact that it was a fleeting reality,
Nick led Mary to the bedroom. Nick wondered if Mary was expecting – or even hoping – for something to happen. Would he change his mind? Unlike a “normal” date, there was no mystery as to whether sex was a possibility. The ball was completely in his court. Despite this reality, he continued trying everything in his power to convince himself that this was a “normal” date. And as a rule of thumb, he didn’t fuck on first dates.
            Nick pulled back the comforter and sheets of his double bed, which he had made for the first time since he could remember. As though by instinct, Mary quickly removed her clothes, stripping down to her bra and panties, revealing an otherwise flawless body ravaged by scars and bruises. He also caught a glimpse of a bottle of mace strapped around her thigh. Nick looked away, out of respect. She suddenly covered herself, as though she realized that this wasn’t part of Nick’s plan, despite it otherwise always being part of the plan.
Nick was taken a bit aback by how quickly and almost robotically she disrobed. He wished she had exhibited a little more modesty – not in respect to Nick, but in respect to herself. He wished they lived in a world where Mary didn’t feel an automatic obligation to remove her clothes the second she entered into a bedroom and where the sex was not expected on a first date.
“Would you like a t-shirt and sweatpants?” Nick asked, realizing that he was probably the first client to ever want her to keep her clothes on.
            “That would be nice,” Mary said.
Nick dug out a worn-out Detroit Tigers t-shirt and a pair of paint-stained sweatpants that he had owned since high school.
            “Are these okay?” he asked her.
            “They’re perfect,” Mary said, as though they were made from the finest silk.
            Nick motioned for her to climb into bed. So she did. And he followed.
            “Are you sure you don’t …,” Mary said, trying to hide her pleading tone.
            “I’m positive,” Nick said.
            “Because it’s okay … “ Mary added.           “I just want to make sure you get your money’s worth.”
            “I already did,” Nick said in reply. “I just want to hold you.”
            They spooned, facing the window as snow continued to fall steadily outside.
            “Promise not to laugh if I tell you something?” Mary asked.
            “Of course,” Nick asked.
“Do you know what I had been praying for?”
“What’s that?”
“For just once, I spend Christmas with somebody special,” Mary said. “I never thought God heard any of my prayers. Especially that one. But yet, he did. And he gave me you.”
“That makes two of us,” Nick said.
“You’re like an angel or something,” Mary added.
“You’re the angel,” Nick said.
“Fallen angel…,” Mary said with a sad smile.
Nick held Mary closer to him as they drifted off to sleep, with visions of sugar plum fairies dancing in their heads. And they slept deep into the morning to make sure Santa wouldn’t pass them by.
            Morning came and with it, a blue sky, accompanied by a bright sun that shone on a fresh blanket of white. When Nick awoke, slightly hungover, he wondered if the entire night was a mere dream. But there she was, sleeping soundly beside him, illuminated like an angel.  He went back to sleep, feeling Mary’s gentle breath against his skin. If only this moment could last forever.
            But, of course, nothing did.
They finally both woke up together, just half past ten.
            Mary awoke, confused. He imagined she felt this way often and it made him sad.
            “Good morning,” Nick said with a warm smile.
            “Good morning,” Mary smiled back.
“Sleep well?” Nick asked.
            Mary nodded.
            “Would you like breakfast?”
            “You don’t have to bother,” Mary insisted. “I’m not your charity case.”
            “Not a bother. And not a charity. But if you have to go…”
            “I don’t have to go. Unless you ask me to.”
            “I would love for you to stay, but only if you want to,” Nick said.
“Breakfast would be lovely,” Mary said.
            “Coffee or tea?”
            “Coffee is good.”
            “I’ll go whip something up. You’re welcome to use the shower if you’d like.”
            As Nick prepared breakfast, Mary showered. He hoped the smell of bacon, hash browns, and fresh coffee filled her nostrils. 
            They ate breakfast in comfortable, mutual silence, fighting off reality with all of their might. Nick would soon return to suburban solitude. And Mary would return to the cold, harsh streets of a fallen city.
            “This is quite possibly the best breakfast I had in over five years,” Mary said.
            “I agree,” Nick said. “And I’m not only talking about the food.”
After the coffee pot was empty, Mary knew the time had come to go. As they awkwardly stood at the door, everything was put into perspective the moment Nick handed Mary her due payment.
            “I can’t,” Mary refused.
            “You earned it,” Nick insisted.
            She insisted on not taking it. 
“You have already given me so much,” she said.
            “Consider it your Christmas present,” Nick said. “Buy yourself something. Like a nice pair of gloves.”
Nick smiled as Mary reluctantly took it from him. It was a transaction neither one of them wanted to make. Yet, circumstances gave them no choice.
            An uber pulled into his driveway.
            “Your chariot’s here,” Nick said.
            Mary smiled.
“It was nice meeting you,” Nick said, offering his hand. He didn’t intend to come across so formal. She shook it. He sensed she felt the same way he did.
            “I know this might be asking for a lot, but can we do this again?” Nick asked.
            “I would love that,” Mary said, appearing genuinely touched. “Anytime. You know where to find me. But only under one circumstance.”
            “What’s that?” Nick asked.
            “Next time, it’s a real date.” 
            “What are you doing New Year’s?”
            “It depends …” Mary said with flirtatious coy.
            She reached for the same pen and notepad they used for Santa and wrote something down before she handed it to Nick. There was a phone number. And a name he didn’t recognize.
            “Elisabeth?”
            “It’s my name,” she said. “I’ve never given it to a client before…”
It was perhaps the greatest Christmas present she could have given him. He hugged her tightly, before she stepped out into the freshly fallen Christmas snow. And then she was gone. And Nick was alone once again.
At least, for the time being.

Do you find it difficult to maintain a career as a writer? 

No I don’t find it difficult at all. My purpose for deciding to become a self-published author was for the flexibility. Without a contract, or having to push publications out when a publisher says I have to, allows me to let my creativity flow on its own time. I don’t feel rushed, or pressured to write a certain amount of books in a certain amount of time. The fact that I do work full-time, and attend online classes, does require me to need that flexibility.

Tell us about your day jobs.  

Well, my full-time job as a computer operator for a military shipping/receiving depot is quite interesting. I love what I do, and it gives me pride to know that I have a hand in the safety of the US military. We are a holding facility for parts that the military uses for training and war. I work on the back end of the day to day operations of the shipping of very important material, although I have worked in the warehouse portion before being promoted to my current position. We send material to wherever the US has military bases, and we supply all branches of the US military.

When it comes to poetry, where do you find your inspiration? 

The inspiration for my poetry comes from the world around me, and my own personal experiences. Life has so much beauty, but it also has so much ugliness. I can always find something interesting to write about, but my favorite topic to write about is love.

What would you like to tell your readers?
​
I would like to tell my readers that behind every story or poem I write, usually there is a message. I am all for motivating and inspiring others, so I try to leave a lasting impression on whoever reads my work. Even if they can’t use the message in their own life at that moment, maybe they can in the future.

Please tell us a little bit about your most recent work.

A Mind to Kill was published in August 2017. It’s a dark psychological thriller, telling the story of one woman’s quest for revenge after childhood abuse. My next book, A Cold Cold Heart, will be published by Bloodhound Books in January 2018.

What draws you to writing novels?

I wrote articles for newspapers and magazines during my career, but White is the Coldest Colour was my first novel. I feel driven to write. It’s something I have to do.

Are you currently working on any side projects such as short stories, essays, etc.?

I’m currently writing my sixth book, the story of a menacing cult based in the west Wales countryside.

Which topics interest you the most and why?

My books draw heavily on my experiences as a police officer and child protection social worker. They’re dark crime stories with a strong psychological element.

Do you have any unique rituals?

I write each morning at the dining room table with music playing. 

One novelist more people should know: Who is it?

I really enjoyed Sick by Christa Wojciechowski. It has a strong psychological element I found interesting.

Do you find it difficult to get your work out there?

I’ve been very lucky in that regard. The book blogging community has really got behind my books and has brought them a lot of attention. 

Tell us about your day job or your daily activities.

I began writing after leaving my job heading up child protection services for Carmarthenshire in Wales. I’m fortunate in that I write full time now. 

When it comes to your work, where do you find your inspiration?

My books are entirely fictional but are inspired by the many cases I investigated and managed over a twenty-year career. 

What would you like to tell your readers?

I’d just like to say a big thank you to everyone. There’s a sea of books out there, and I feel both humbled and grateful that so many people have chosen to read mine. 

Please tell us a little bit about your most recent work.

Near to the Knuckle released their first magazine this Halloween, “The Blood Red Experiment”. It features Neo-Giallo stories (dark/horror thrillers) from 5 very talented writers. I was invited to write a 4 part series, the first one to be included in the second edition of TBRE. I titled it “Waste Management”. It contains all the ingredients of the giallo genre from the 60s and 70s, with plenty of modern sickness to Neo-ize it. You can read the opening scene at the end of this interview.

What draws you to writing novels?

I recall the feeling of completing my first story, a short crime fiction job. It felt as if I had done something incredibly artistic, like a particular drawing I've done that really tested my capabilities. Like any difficult art, fiction writing can become addictive in its rewards.

Are you currently working on any side projects such as short stories, essays, etc.?

“Her Name is Mercie” is a dark thriller novella I just put the final touches on (publisher had me add more closure to the ending). Test readers have told me it's gripping and entertaining, so I’m very proud of it. Mercie will be published by Near to the Knuckle next year as the main feature of a short story collection. I'm working on one more dark short to add to the paperback titled “Hunger”.

Which topics interest you the most and why?

I'm training a couple guys at present. Boxing, general fitness. I enjoy talking to them about methods of training, limitations, and the mental toughness required to accomplish their fitness goals. The bantering during exercises gets pretty crazy. No one is safe.
 
I'm a big fan of science, all fields, especially psychology. The brain is a fascinating organ. Understanding its functionality opens doors to understanding anything else. Human behavior has become a favorite subject, a quiet study. Determining the how/why of people's actions lights me up, though usually bores people to sleep when I attempt a conversation about it.

​Do you have any unique rituals?
 
Before I write, I pace. With a mug of coffee in hand. Circulation begins the brainstorming. I'll pace near my desk and stare at my outline, periodically stopping to add to it. When I get stuck on composing a scene, I'll walk around and think of something else, let my subconscious do the work.
 
The only other ritual I have is stretching every day. If that could be considered a ritual.

One novelist more people should know: Who is it? 

Roy Harper. He wrote “Shank” and “Heist”. Beautifully written action series.

Do you find it difficult to get your work out there? 

Absolutely. The big publishers easily out-compete the small ones, and with the eBook market tanking it's only getting tougher. Getting reviews is nearly a full-time job. I've read so many books by indie publishers that are truly under published, and so many by big publishers that had no business being in print. My work has an added difficulty because I'm a prisoner. Publishers take a gamble with their business reputation signing a convict, and convicts can't do live events unless it's a phone-in. Marketability is questionable. All the cop shows and tough on crime politics make selling my books an uphill battle.

Tell us about your day job or your daily activities.

I read, write, draw, help others with legal work, cut hair. Fitness training. Sometimes I make a little money doing tattoos, a favorite passion of mine. I work for a publisher proofreading and such,
and have recently started editing works for other authors.

When it comes to your work, where do you find your inspiration?

There's no predicting that. I get story ideas from the strangest things. Usually during humorous conversations. Wild, unique or terribly stupid, some thoughts just naturally form story plot.

What would you like to tell your readers?

You can get a free copy of “Sharp as a Razor” Book 1 by emailing my rep Henry at c.henryroi@gmail.com.
 
Check out the opening of my latest dark fiction series below. “Waste Management” debuts in the May 2018 edition of The Blood Red Experiment.
Leave a comment and tell your friends.
 
Thanks for having me Paradox Reviews!

Please tell us a little bit about your most recent work.

Broccoli is my most recent published book and the first thing I have self-published (unless people want to count the short stories I upload for free on my website). Broccoli has amazing cover art by Ilan Sheady from Uncle Frank Productions and can be purchased as a paperback from lulu. I wrote Broccoli many years ago after a friend of mine sent me a nice long list of traditional writing rules that one shouldn’t break – I decided to break them all (the book is dedicated to my friend for sending me the rules!). It was an idea I had been playing with for a while, with the character squeezing pimples. It didn’t work until I read “second person” and “present tense” on that list of rules of how not to write. The list also provided me with a beginning, “don’t start the story with someone waking”. Broccoli started as a short story, something to amuse me and my friend. It kept growing. I was stuck on another story, “Seth” (the first part of which is on my website), and needed to write something both descriptive and disgusting. An awful lot of body fluids were described, along with different dimensions. It wasn’t until I let other people read it, that I realised I’d written something people actually enjoyed. Out of all my stories, it’s the one I enjoyed writing the most. There isn’t any real traditional linear plot to speak of, which was fun. The only difficulty I really had with it was trying to keep the character gender neutral.

What draws you to writing novels?

I tell the story with how many words it takes. If they end up at novel length, that’s how many words they needed.

Are you currently working on any side projects such as short stories, essays, etc.?

Currently, the only things on my to-do list are novels and novellas. I’m also preparing stuff for me to work with in the spring and summer when I typically don’t get many ideas. I can’t simply take the spring and summer off from writing. That makes me a bit cranky.
Files other than this one open on my computer right now include a novella (“Sparky the Spunky Robot”), a novel (“El Chupacabra Tickles Michael's Bearded Ghost in the Butt”) and a finished novella (“Ghetto Super Skank”) that reads more like the start to a much longer novel. I’m not sure how to publish Ghetto Super Skank but once the other novella and novel are done, I’ll be writing the novel it seems to introduce. It won’t be the first time I’ve divided stories up like that. By cutting out the beginning in something, I cut a lot of pointless introduction and sometimes I’m left with an entire other story.
In autumn and winter, when my creative brain seems more active, I take notebooks from my stack of blank notebooks and will write the first few hundred words of a story in them. So far, I have two to work on over the summer. That might give me a few weeks in September when I’m not writing anything but sometimes, I can work with short story prompts.

Which topics interest you the most and why?

I write about a lot of different things, but I guess I’m more known for graphic sex scenes, if you want to call them that (they aren’t pleasant sex scenes), and body fluids. I don’t rule out any topics though.
Time interests me a lot, mainly because I have no concept of it myself and tell time in Skinny Puppy songs (“I’m about three Skinny Puppy songs away, be there soon” is a common text message to receive from me). I have to set alarms. It was something I tried to convey in “Reptile” (out now from JEA), but I think in that story I more explored cloning and inter-dimensional travel. Since finishing “Reptile”, cloning and different dimensions have been topics that haven’t come up again.
A lot of my stories have a little piece of the aforementioned “Seth” in them as I’ve been working on that, on and off, for ten years. “Seth” is my pornographic lit piece. Once that’s finish, it might be a long time before anything I write even has a sex scene in it.
If I write about something, I have to keep writing about it until I’ve perfected it on some sort of subconscious level.

Do you have any unique rituals?

I don’t have any unique rituals in regards to writing. I tend to wake early to ensure I get some writing in that day. 5am seems the best time to do it, everyone else is still sleeping. Writing in the morning, while having coffee tends to put me in a good mood for the day as well. I have enough published now where I’m a bit more sheltered from people being negative.
In regards to random rituals or things I do every day, every morning when I’m done writing and need to get my son up for school, I listen to the same Nine Inch Nails album – “With Teeth”. My day doesn’t seem to flow right without it. It isn’t even their best or my favourite one!

One novelist more people should know: Who is it?

There are so many novelists out there writing today. I only have a little bit of time set aside for reading each day so I don’t get to read as much as I would like. The Sisters of Slaughter, Michelle Garza and Melissa Lason, are favourites of mine.
I’ve just completed Dual Depravity 2 with David Owain Hughes which’ll be out eventually from JEA. If you like my stuff, you’ll like his.
RD Cervo sent me a copy of his book “Kali on a Rampage” a few years ago. I absolutely loved that.
This year, over Christmas, I plan on reading a lot more books as I’ll have a few days off the day job and my son will be off school. I share custody with his step mother, but I’ll have him for the first half of the Christmas break, once he’s in bed, I like to read and relax and won’t need to wake up early in the morning.

Do you find it difficult to get your work out there?

When I first had completed pieces to have published, I found it difficult to get that break. I didn’t have many completed pieces though. These days, it is much easier and I plan on self-publishing more.

Tell us about your day job or your daily activities.

In terms of day job, under medical advice, I’m not meant to think about it unless I’m actually there. I don’t mind talking about it necessarily, but people take that a bit too far and come up with all sorts of things for me to do instead, while ignoring my writing. These days, I typically say I’m an author and the day-job is on a need-to-know basis.
Daily activities revolve around my son and making sure I do enough things to improve our circumstances. When I’m not writing, I enjoy trying to reclaim my drawing skills which were lost under stress. My son likes to draw with me. He wants his own set of pencils now. Although, lately, I’ve been knitting my son a Christmas jumper. He wants one with lights this year and didn’t like the one I crocheted for him last year.  

When it comes to your work, where do you find your inspiration?

Inspiration can come from anywhere. Song lyrics are popular with me, or what they sound like instead of what they actually are. I have a series called “Stef and Tucker” (to be published) which started as that. Dreams (I’ll get to that in a minute). People that annoy me and why they annoy me. Current affairs. Symptoms of various diseases and mental health issues.  
A few months back I had a tinder account. It has since been deleted, but I matched with the best-looking guy I’d ever seen (or he had great command of filters). I never met him in person, haven’t spoken to him in six months but had a dream he was sending me messages saying “I won’t cause you stress”. It was a very repetitive dream. So me and a friend decided to google him. Boring. Boring. Boring. The guy certainly hides behind his job, or the job is him (an area I haven’t yet explored in writing). To be successful at what he does, he would have required a lot of passion to begin with anyways, so it is entirely possible the job became such a big part of him and his life, he doesn’t know any different. Writing did that to me for a while; I was either writing or telling people why they should be leaving me alone so I could write. My hobbies such as knitting and drawing are what prevent that these days. The one bit of personal information about him on the first page of results was actually something we had in common, but he wouldn’t know that as it was something that never came up. The results of the image search provided some inspiration, or amusement, a bit of both, really. Haven’t based a character on him though as that doesn’t seem fair and I already have a character with the same job. The character I already have, “Swampgas”, appears in a few stories. “Swampgas” wishes he had Hot Tinder Guy’s job. Hot Tinder Guy didn’t stand out as being a jerk. Mirrored my responses to his questioning though. Might have to use that somewhere as it was super annoying, especially as he didn’t say why he was doing it. I came up with three possibilities. As I’m not the only person with google, I’ll leave that there. For all I know, Hot Tinder Guy is a great person who just happened to have an occupation that put me on edge due to the person Swampgas is based on doing some truly horrible things to me.
My boyfriend is an aspiring keytar owner. He’s wanted one for as long as I’ve known him. We split up for a bit. When we decided to give things another go, his love of the keytar grew in my absence. I can actually picture him sharing his bed with a cardboard cut-out of a keytar. I have a thing against keytars so nearly everything I’ve been writing or drawing lately has contained a keytar. He still hasn’t bought this keytar. He’s not going to get on the Wikipedia list of famous keytar players if he keeps spending all his money on rare blu-rays!.
“Ketamine Addicted Pandas” started because the black metal band Immortal look like pandas and a picture of them had graced my Facebook newsfeed on the day I was asked to write about an endangered species. I needed a way to break pandas out of their enclosure. I doubt ketamine is strong enough for pandas, but most zoos would have a supply of it. Ketamine being a party drug and all, they became party pandas, who sometimes play black metal while going on a church-burning murderous rampage through northern Europe.
I write a lot of pleasant stories, but these don’t get the attention of the extreme stuff, unless they’re short and in an anthology. I decided to combine pleasantness and body fluids in “Sparky the Spunky Robot” (there’s also a keytar, because of course there has to be a keytar).
Each story has different influences in it and pulls in influence from anything. They all share one influence which is “Seth”. Until that is finished, I don’t think there is any escape.

What would you like to tell your readers?
​
I typically can’t respond to messages right away. Tell your friends if you like my books, or if they make you feel sick. Leave reviews. Interact on Facebook. Don’t be shy, even if I don’t respond, it doesn’t mean I’m ignoring you, but life and writing sometimes get in the way. Gin and absinthe are welcomed gifts. And of course, thanks for reading.

Fisherman’s Blues" is the hilarious new novel from Mick Donnellan.Dark and audacious, written in a distinct West of Ireland vernacular, it covers a myriad of genres from Crime Noir to comedy and an odd bit of religion. Fresh in its language, vivid in its descriptions, the book
sings with the signature style of all Donnellan’s previous work, and a bit more. Delving into the lives of drinkers, lovers, thieves and scam artists, the story weaves a web of intrigue and curiosity that ends with an unforgettable bang. Not without its poignant

moments, the plot hinges on the chaotic consequences of three unlikely comrade’s attempts to save their lost relationships, while unintentionally ruining the plans of a rising criminal’s efforts to take over the city. The question is: Can they succeed? And

If they don’t, what then? And where have the women really gone? 

Please tell us a little bit about your most recent work.

My most recent work was a movie call Tiger Raid. It was adapted from a Play I wrote called "Radio Luxembourg.” Had it’s world premiere at Tribeca Film Festival. Before that, it was my second novel - Fisherman’s Blues.

What draws you to writing novels?

I love the time and space to explore my stories fully. And always enjoy the unlimited scope to do whatever I creatively want. 
 
Are you currently working on any side projects such as short stories, essays, etc.?
Working on a new film adaptation of one of my Plays with an exciting film company in Galway, Ireland.

Which topics interest you the most and why? 
Crime, thriller, suspense. Addiction and underworld. Love the raw honesty, the dialogue and the darkness. 

Do you have any unique rituals? 
I never write on a Laptop with Internet access. Always save and transfer the material afterwards. I feel the work goes through an extra Alchemy during the switch before it’s sent somewhere to be considered, published. 

One novelist more people should know: Who is it? 
Dostoyevsky. 

Do you find it difficult to get your work out there? 
Yes, if you wait for it to happen. I believe you should always be prepared to self promote. 

Tell us about your day job or your daily activities. 
Sales Manager. Oversee a team of reps and ensure they meet their targets.

When it comes to your work, where do you find your inspiration? 
In everyday life. Usually a throwaway comment, or sentence. Or random story. 

What would you like to tell your readers? 
Keep writing. It’ll save your life some day. 

by Jeremy Mac

“Do you believe in eternal life?” the hooded figure asked the man slumped before him.
“I –” the man faltered, his gaze fell to the ground, and his feeble shoulders were somehow able to droop even further than they’d already been. “I don’t know what to believe in anymore.”
Pleased with the pathetic man’s shamed response, the hooded figure retrieved a cloth pouch from inside his cloak, held it in the palm of his hand and shook it, jangling its silver contents.
The man looked up; his dark, brooding eyes locked onto the pouch. He reached out his hand, wavered, then stopped, as if time froze up. But only for a moment. His hand started to tremble, and he felt what little bearings he had left in him quickly slip away. Panicked, he shot his hand forward and snatched away the pouch. He cradled it to his body, fingering his traitorous reward.
He turned to take his leave, but after taking one step, he looked back over his shoulder. His voice quivered when he dared to turn the question back onto the hooded figure.
“Do you believe in eternal life?”
A sickle smile revealed jagged, yellow teeth within the darkness of the hood, and with black mockery he replied, “Verily I say unto you, I certainly do. And it shall be mine for the taking.”
 
            
 
The hostile sun burned high in a cloudless blue sky, baking the desert earth and sending up tiny dust clouds from marching footfalls. When he stumbled and fell the abrasive ground scraped his knees and caused his burden to rub raw against the back of his skinned neck, but it was a far cry from what he’d already suffered.
The fall elicited a thunder of cries and curses from the inflamed crowd. His eyes were crusted with dried blood and dust and nearly swollen shut, but through narrow slits of his eyelids he was still able to see. He saw their faces, the hate they portrayed, but not only that, he could actually feel their hate. He’d known similar hate before, a hate fueled by ignorance and fear, but never such a strong sense of it like this, and although these people, his very own, numbered in the thousands, there were many among them who bemoaned his fate. The physical pain he endured was almost unbearable, but through it he was able to absorb the love of those who believed, and that gave him the strength to push onward.
Weak legs wobbling, he lurched back onto his feet. His arms ached beneath the weight when he pulled his burden back up across his shoulders. The journey would soon be over but these last steps felt like an eternity.
On the hills crest he was forced to lie with his back against the dogwood post, arms out to his sides, and long iron nails were hammered into their places. When he was raised vertical to the ground his body stretched under his own weight, and he gave a painful shudder when the bottom of the post slid into the posthole and hit solid ground.
The crowd’s collective anguish and hatred was so severely focused that no one gave notice to the hooded figure that came beneath the crucified’s bleeding wrist, and still gave no notice when a small silver jar was held up to catch his blood. Once a satisfactory amount was procured the hooded figure secured the jar and vanished into the crowd.
Sometime later the crucified’s side was pierced by a spear and water and blood gushed from the wound.
 
                  
 
The catacomb had many galleries and chambers, most were reserved for tombs, but two were specially reserved for more observed purposes. In one of these two chambers a eunuch slave lit torches in the wall sconces and then prepared the room for the event that would soon be taking place, and even though the task he was charged with was not difficult, he was sure to be precise in what little was required of him. He dare not disappoint his masters in the slightest, especially on this night. After he rolled up the camel skin that covered the stone floor’s ancient inscription and swept away all the dust and dirt from floor to ceiling, and secured the iron chains, he stood anxiously near the entrance, awaiting their arrival.
 
                 
 
There were six of them, hooded in long dark robes that dragged the ground as they entered the chamber and took their allotted positions in the middle of the room. Each member of the brethren stood within one of the five triangles, and the sixth person stood within the pentagon in the middle. Five circling one.
A hand gesture was made to the eunuch and he immediately responded, timidly approaching the figure that stood in the middle of the five and easing the hood away from their head. The eunuch had known prior to this evening that it would be a young woman but he was startled to find how beautiful she was: long silky black hair framed a slender face with high cheek bones and bright honey colored skin. Her wide framed eyes were big and so dark that the irises were indistinguishable from their pupils. But she did not look directly at him, her gaze was downcast and unfocused, as if she were in a dreamlike trance.
The eunuch disrobed her, slowly slipping the coarse garment from her shoulders and letting it drop to the floor, collecting in a dark puddle of fabric around her feet. She wore nothing under the robe, and he chanced a moment to allow his eyes to pass over her nude body. Like her male counterpart, she was pure and flawless, a virgin of smooth skin and supple curves, dainty nipples crowned high breasts, and a small thatch of dark rabbit’s fur pubic hair nestled between her long legs. Had the eunuch still been equipped he would have felt an immediate stirring, but despite the loss of his carnal desire it did not affect his cognizance for beauty and so he took advantage of its measures, secret as they were, on the rare occasions he was blessed to behold its essence.
Having spent a moment too long appraising her, a slight but obviously annoyed gesture from one of his five masters reminded the eunuch of his place here.
Chastened, the eunuch bent down to collect the robe from around the young woman’s feet and then scuttled back to the wall.
All at once the five hooded figures carried their hands skyward, palms out, and commenced the incantation of the Fallen. The chant began slowly, each word concentrated with bridled intensity and control, invoking a hypnotic cadence that lulled the young woman’s eyes closed and lured her body to unconsciously sway ever so slightly side-to-side. While the eerie chant continued, the volume and speed of the five increased until their vocal reverberation bounced off the chamber’s dense walls and vibrated through the stale air.
Suddenly the torches in the wall sconces blossomed into orange and green tinted balls of fire, causing the eunuch to flinch and empty his bladder where he stood. Had he the right mind to, he would have bolted out of the chamber, but he was held entranced.
Heat waves rose from the young woman’s feet and a multi-hued prism pulsed around her body. A sulfurous odor tinged the air. Her chest heaved as her breathing hitched and escalated. Each intake of breath caused her to stand more erect, her body more tensed, until suddenly she became impossibly still, as if she had turned to granite.
Her eyes shot open to reveal obsidian black orbs.
The five surrounding her were instantly silenced.
And then she spoke, but the voice that came from her was not her own, nor was the language of her native tongue. She was now an incarnation of Hemozel, the blood demon.
“Man no longer sacrifices such chaste beauty as he once so easily had in the days of yore.” A small, wicked grin curved her bee stung lips. “This must be good.”
She happened to be facing Daniel, so it was he who answered her, and while he spoke to her in the ancient Nephlum tongue, Samuel and Horace quietly eased up behind her with the chain and wrist irons at the ready.
Incarnation was unpredictable and extremely dangerous, and although body restraints were ideal, they could only be placed on the host after the spirit was fully incarnated. For incarnation to be successful a host must be free of covering and bondage. A naked and unbound host is an open door inviting the spirit to step inside, and the purer and more beautiful the host the stronger the lure and more tempting the possession, otherwise had it been so easy restraints would have been secured onto the young woman prior to the incantation.
Just then something alarmed her, a tiny clink of a chain, and with speed and strength none of them could match, she whipped her arm backward and sent Samuel flying into the air, cracking his head against the wall, killing him instantly. She snatched Horace by the throat and he reflexively reacted, locking the iron around her wrist. She channeled her rage and squeezed her hand through the soft skin, curling her fingers around his esophagus and ripping the muscular tube out of his neck. A hydrant of blood spewed onto her body as he fell to the floor.
The eunuch’s bowels turned to liquid as he sank in fear, cowering against the wall, shaking uncontrollably and stinking of his own urine and feces, his face a mask of perfect terror.
Daniel dove for the floor, snatching up the second wrist iron as the other two lunged at her, but their attack was false. When she moved to counterattack the three men dispersed and yielded just outside the perimeter of the pentagram, a border she could not cross. It was a controlled barrier and only two things could bring it down; the brethren’s approval, or all five of their deaths.
The pentagram was four paces in diameter, the thick wrist irons Horace managed to clamp around her one wrist was secured to the floor on the other side of the barrier, but the length of the chain she was afforded gave her over half the radius of the pentagram to maneuver about. The three remaining members circled her, contemplating their next move. She hissed and snarled as she tried to grab them, jerking her chained arm back and forth, snapping the chain taut in an attempt to break free. The action tore the skin at her wrist to the bone, but earthly pain was such a trivial thing for a high demon, and if circumstances were different Hemozel would simply tear the vessel’s hand off. But to do that now would be counterproductive, bound within this small enclosure and allowing the stump to bleed her out, giving them exactly what they wanted, so Hemozel reined in its rage.
Taking a passive stance, the aggression in her face faded into a serene mask. Lightly pressing a finger against her belly she slowly, seductively, traced nondescript squiggles in the slick blood. Then she spoke in their native tongue, using the girl’s own voice. If it wasn’t for the huge black orbs of her eyes she would appear as the human beauty she once was.
“So beautiful. . . So very pure. It would be a shame to allow it to go to waste, don’t you think? Let’s have ourselves a little fun.”
When all three men spoke as one voice, rebuking the demon, the possessed woman gave them a suggestive little grin as she carried her hand upward, tracing a line with a delicate finger over the soft skin between her crimson covered breasts. Stepping forward just inches away from the pentagram’s barrier, she widened her stance, cupped one breast in her hand, massaging its fullness, smearing the blood as if it were body oil, pinching and pulling her nipple as if to milk it, encouraging it to swell. She pushed out her pelvis and brought her chained hand between her legs. Closing her eyes, a broken series of wanton sighs and moans escaped her as greedy fingers slid back and forth between the vulva of her sex.
The stark contrast of the carnally morbid scene unfolding before him had the eunuch slackjawed with engrossing anticipation for what was to come. He could not move, nor did he want to.
Daniel was about to rebuke the demon once more but before he gave voice Ladamus silenced him with a hand, and then pointed his finger toward her middle. Near to where they stood, blood flowed from the deep gouges she’d made in her wrist, dripping down her inner thighs while she fondled herself.
Zachariah went into his robe and came out with a small silver jar. Ladamus went into his robe and retrieved a silver dagger. Daniel held firmly onto the chain and irons yet to be cuffed onto her other wrist.
The possessed girl brought both hands together between her legs, using both to work herself over. Her chest heaved with a steady rise and fall of hard, shallow breathes on the brink of a screaming orgasm. She shuddered, and while in the lost moment, she withdrew her chained hand to hold it amid the air before her, mindlessly clenching and unclenching the open space there.
The blood dripped.
Her eyes closed tighter as she tilted her head back, rolling it languidly on her slender neck. Zachariah took advantage of her averted attention and carried the silver jar over the pentagram’s barrier and held it beneath her wrist, catching the trickle of blood. Instantly he was snatched by the arm.
She snapped her head forward. Eyes opened wide, she leveled a heart stopping gaze on him, and smiled with sinister delight. It happened so fast and without warning that it took them all by surprise. Before Daniel and Ladamus could react she jerked Zachariah into the pentagram’s circle, holding firmly onto his arm as she slammed him to the floor, flattened a foot over his chest, and torqued his arm from his shoulder. Zachariah’s screams shook the room but Daniel and Ladamus did not falter, they charged at her. She parried Ladamus’s dagger using Zachariah’s dismembered arm, and then she slung it around and clobbered him over the head just before Daniel tackled her to the ground. The blow to the head only stunned Ladamus for a moment, he recovered quickly and went to help Daniel subdue her with the irons. They laid their full bodies over hers, using their weight to secure her to the floor in an attempt to chain her wrist, but both of their strengths together barely equaled hers as she bucked in a mad frenzy and screamed in vocal pitches not of this world.
Zachariah lay in shock to their side, his body twitching uncontrollably as powerful arcs of blood spurted out of his armless shoulder in time to the waning pump of his heart. Blood shot out onto the three struggling next to him, its slipperiness made it nearly impossible for Daniel and Ladamus to keep hold of the possessed woman.
Unable to use the dagger ceremoniously, Ladamus took a chance by releasing it from his grasp, allowing it to fall to the floor so that he would have the use of both hands to help lock the iron cuff around her wrist.
Smothered by the weight of both men close to clasping the second iron around her wrist, the demon flexed her chained arm. Her face and neck swelled under the pressure, turning her color into a deep shade of reddish purple as wormy veins popped to the surface of her skin. The two men were filled with dread as she began to slide all three of them across the rough surface of the floor. The short distance she moved them gave her partial mobility of her chained arm, allowing her to reach for the dagger she knew to be lying on the floor next to her, only for her hand to touch bare surface.
All three looked up to find the eunuch standing over them, wielding the dagger in his trembling hand.
“Please help me!” The woman pleaded. “I’ll give you everything you’ve ever wanted. Riches beyond this world. I’ll even give you back what was taken from you, if only you’ll help me. Please!”
 
” Do not listen to it!” Daniel yelled, red faced with panic. “She is no longer the human woman you see! She is the demon Hemozel, the child of the father of lies and deceit! She’s only trying to trick you! She’ll devour your soul!”
“No, never. Your soul is only yours to give and I would not ask – ”
“Lies!” Daniel yelled.
“They are the liars! Just look at what they are trying to do. And for what?”
“Silence, demon!”
“They will keep you enslaved. I will make you free.”
“I rebuke you demon!”
“Please help me!”
“We need you now more than ever!” Ladamus yelled desperately. “Help us, and you will become a true brother of the brethren!”
Torn between two opposing worlds, vitality and death, beauty and dull content, the eunuch trembled with fear and uncertainty. But for all that, the eunuch readied himself, bent down, then laid the dagger to the side. He took up the iron cuff and secured it around the possessed woman’s wrist.
“Fool!” she spat at the eunuch. Her whole body then went limp, as if in defeated surrender.
A moment of quiet relief passed through the men before they relaxed their grip on her arms. The moment their exhausted limbs went slack, she shot her face upward, sinking her teeth into the soft skin of Daniel’s neck and biting out a chunk of flesh, severing the artery. She chewed his flesh voraciously and swallowed it down, then she laughed uproariously, arching her back off the floor and whipping her head side-to-side. Her hysterical laughter turned into a mad fit as she jerked her chained arms to and fro, lifting her legs and spreading them wide in vulgar mannerism while kicking about.
Daniel slapped a hand to his neck in a desperate attempt to stanch the blood flow, but it was pointless. In a matter of seconds he collapsed to his knees and fell over dead.
Ladamus snapped at the eunuch, “Hurry! Time is of the essence!”
Ladamus retrieved the dagger and the eunuch retrieved the silver jar. She jerked and snapped and roared at them but the chains held true. The eunuch set the jar on the floor, grabbed hold of her arm and held tight as he stretched it over the jar. Ladamus drove the dagger deep into the flesh of her forearm and sliced down its length, opening the veins. The dark demonic blood poured from the wound like honey from a barrel. Once a sufficient amount was procured Ladamus held the dagger over her, and just before he brought it down, she set her cold dark gaze on the eunuch and said, “A slave in life, and so you shall be in eternal death.”
The dagger entered her heart, releasing her and the demon in a burst of green and orange flames.
 
    
 
The silver jar was taken to the second chamber where it was placed on a table, next to an identical silver jar whose contents were visually much alike but the two similarities went no further than what the naked eye could perceive. Their differences went much deeper and were more intricate and powerful than any human could imagine. And what happened to Ladamus’s fellow brethren could not have been more perfect. It saved him the labor of dealing with each one himself. All five members were to reap the benefits of what was sure to be an abundance of wealth and power, but Ladamus was greedy and he wanted it all for himself. And as far as the eunuch went, well, he’d be easy to deal with. Once a slave, always a slave.
Just then he was forced again to remind the eunuch of his place, cuffing him sharply across the face and scolding him for his snooping around the work table.
The eunuch bowed his head in shame and apologized for his ignorance, stepping away from his master.
The ceremony was lackluster to say the least. The two jars were emptied equal parts into another larger jar and, using the blade of the silver dagger, stirred into an even consistency. The dagger was then laid aside and the jar’s contents were poured into a gold chalice. Ladamus closed his eyes and circled his hands wide around the chalice as he gave a final blessing. His voice quivered as he could barely contain his excitement, knowing what was about to take place.
Alas. Light and darkness brought unto one another to coincide within one living soul.
He opened his eyes to finally take the chalice and lift it to his lips. . . but it was gone. Struck with panic he panned the chamber and saw the eunuch at the end of the table, holding the chalice in his hands. Instantly he was enraged at the eunuch for so blatantly defying his authority. He snatched up the dagger and ordered the slave to hand over the chalice or else suffer the consequences.
But the eunuch did not seem to hear him. Or perhaps he did not care. He simply stood there holding a blank gaze on his master.
Or, rather, what was once his master.
The very thought brought a gratifying smile to the eunuch’s lips, revealing the crimson stained teeth in his mouth. He noted the look that came over his old master’s face, a look of confusion that teetered on the edge of seething anger.
The eunuch upended the chalice, an exaggerated show of proof for what he’d so boldly done.
“No. . .” the old master said breathlessly, refusing to believe it. After all that had been sacrificed and procured, the Blood of Life from the Son of the High God coupled with the Blood of Darkness from the incarnation of the damned, a perfect marriage of the two bloods to create a new and wonderous being of the world . . .   Now gone forever from his grasp.
Ladamus’s head hung limp and his hand went slack, dropping the useless dagger to the floor. His legs wobbled, threatening collapse as he knelt down to his knees and bowed before the eunuch. One word passed humbly from his lips, a word that was often used by many in reference to himself but he had never once used to address another man by. Until now.
“Master.”
The eunuch’s lips spread further to form a sinister smile, and the soft orange glow from the chamber’s torches gleamed magnificently off the two razor sharp fangs that slowly began to grow in his mouth.

Jeremy Mac is a multi-genre fiction author with three novels, one novella, and several short stories and poems to his list of writing credits. His short stories and poems have been published in Horrified Press's X4 anthology, Devolution Z, Down in the Dirt, Conceit, Ascent Aspirations, The Ultimate Writer, Spontaneous Spirits, The Bracelet Charm, The Enchanted File Cabinet, Transcendent Visions, Struggle, and Dead Snakes. An avid lover of sand and sun, Mac has frolicked throughout the Gulf and Atlantic coasts, but he currently writes from Arkansas. To learn more about Jeremy Mac, visit his Facebook page @:facebook.com/jeremymac.author

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by Jeremy Mac

​The aerial overview of the jungle below was remarkable. Professor Hale pointed out landmarks and explained them all with the tenacity and enthusiasm of an overzealous child. Most of the fascination came from the fact that virtually every topographical contour in the primordial forest was created not by geological and environmental forces but by the vanished inhabitants of one of the world’s foundational civilizations. Vincent Vick recognized most of the landmarks from the book, articles and video documentary he researched prior to the trip, but nothing could compare to the real thing. There just below were what appeared to be volcanoes rising out of the limestone lowlands, but both men knew this not to be the case; those were pyramids built more than two thousand years ago, now half swallowed in vines, trees and shrubbery, as if the forest’s vegetation were trying to hide the last traces of this lost society.
Soon their helicopter landed on a grassy clearing, and while unloading their light load, Vincent said to Hale, “You do fully understand the repercussions?”
 
Hale gave a brief nod, and as he did so he allowed his eyes to close lazily with a slight grin on his face. The kind of gesture made only by those who feel they are more in the know than the one who is more than qualified to relay the required knowledge.
“Yes, Mr. Vick, I do fully understand the repercussions. You made them quite clear earlier today. But tell me, if I were to now suddenly change my mind, would you reimburse me my money? Travel expenses and all?”
“Is there a chance you may change your mind?”
An exaggerated laugh, and not even a good one. Hale pulled a lot of strings to make this happen, from the hiring of Vincent Vick to the public vacancy of the ruins for the next three days. His life’s work depended on the entire thing. It was literally his Event Horizon.
“Not a chance,” Hale said adamantly.
“Then it doesn’t matter. We do it tomorrow, and we’ll need to be at your ideal spot at dawn.”
Both men hoisted their luggage over their shoulders and made the trek toward the ruins.
“And I’ll have two days?” Hale said.
“Exactly forty-one hours is all I can promise you.  So I’m sure you’ll want to make the most of it, which is why you’ll want to arrive in the early morning hours. After all – although I don’t know much about them, other than what I’ve read up on them for the last month – I’m sure they weren’t late risers.”
Hale’s weathered face lit up, the deep laugh lines around his mouth blooming like two huge parenthesis. “Ah, so you have gotten to know my beloved people. So tell me, what do you think of them?”
Slight shrug. “Interesting people.”
“Interesting people,” Hale retorted, as if personally insulted. “How much research did you do?”
“I read one book, plus several articles and essays, and I viewed a couple of video documentaries that I found on the internet.”
“And ‘interesting’ is the best you can describe them?”
“Let me explain something to you, Professor. With all due respect to you and your work, I am here for one reason only, and being well educated, or even slightly informed, on the details of these people is not a part of that reason. Any research I do as part of the event is strictly out of necessity and/or curiosity on my part, and that is it.”
Hale stopped where he was, holding up a neutral hand, nodding his head. “Yes, yes, I understand, Mr. Vick. Truly I do. But it’s simply that these people were beyond interesting. They were of the most sophisticated people economically, culturally and socially the world had known at that time in history. We’ve found potsherds with colors and the waxy telltale feel of the Chicarel style which dated the temple to two centuries before Christ. We’ve found causeways dating back one thousand to four hundred B.C. that are part of the very first freeway system in the world.”
Hale’s tantric passion for the subject, coupled with his unruly white hair and wide, intense blue eyes capturing Vincent’s own eyes in a snare-like hold and then suddenly casting his eyes wildly about, as if he were searching for The Big Secret somewhere within the lush greenery around them, made him look like a mad scientist on the brink of a breakthrough.
Humored by the professor’s vim, Vincent decided to prod the old man further, and said, “Were they also not very superstitious and sacrificial?”
Hale did not falter. “Yes, indeed they were. But you must understand that during that time in history many of the world’s civilizations were equally superstitious, and believed that animal and human sacrifice to be sacred services to their gods and important rituals to uphold in order to enrich their own personal and spiritual lives. The hieroglyphics and wall paintings of these depictions are a marvel to see. But my main focus is the time just before these people even began documenting their own culture and beliefs, which is the time when I must begin.”
They walked off of the grassy clearing and entered the dense forest, Hale leading the way, surefooted within the rich, exotic flora and not once stopping or slowing to second guess his own course to evaluate a potentially better one. It was as if Hale had a built-in GPS programmed for only one path.
Although Vincent would never admit it, he was impressed, and not just by the professor’s knowledge and his obvious learned direction – Vincent had seen similar in other clients – but by the older man’s careful determination. It teetered on the edge of the possessed.
A professor of Neolithic history, and his universities archaeologist, Thomas Hale was the top scholar on the subject in the country. He’d given lectures on five continents and was published in most of the major academic journals, but for Hale there was much more to be learned, and this was the ultimate way to acquire that priceless knowledge. Retaining Vincent Vick’s services was not an easily direct nor cheap process. The man was only known in very small and secretive circles, and those who had heard of him but had never dealt directly with him or retained his service had thought him to be that of the sensationalized stories of drunken and ill-fated historians. Literally the only way to get to Vincent was by knowing somebody who knew somebody and then hoping that you would eventually receive a return message informing you that you were currently being considered. Lucky for Hale he knew somebody.
When an associate of Vincent had contacted him several weeks earlier about Professor Thomas Hale’s intention – at the time Vincent had never heard of Hale before –, Vincent treated it like he would any other prospect by making a full-scale investigation of him, dissecting his family’s entire history up to the present day. Vincent was extremely leery of any client, there were those whose lives were so questionable that he could not risk awarding them one moment of time much less forty-one hours, but for those he had allowed to retain him, well, in the end each client was gratified in one way or another. Once Vincent was satisfied that the professor was simply a harmless romantic for the past, which was what many of his clients amounted to anyhow, Vincent awarded Hale his service.
It wasn’t long before the jungle’s heat caught up with both men and their shirts began to stick to their backs. By early evening their jaunt ended and they emerged into open ground. Immediately Vincent recognized many of the limestone structures, and not just from the inflight overhead view, but from his previous research back in the states.
Hale took a moment to admire the panoramic view before saying, “Here we are, Mr. Vick. The Mayan ruins.”
Hale gave Vincent a brief but very energetic tour, and by dusk they made camp just beyond the perimeter of the ruins.
Sitting by a camp fire outside their tents while sipping Hale’s special herbal tea and snacking on crackers, the two conversed lightheartedly, now and then going silent to listen to and admire the occasional caw of a night bird or the call of an exotic animal. Vincent imagined the creatures that may be lurking out there, perhaps watching him this very moment. Once in a while he would look up and around, expecting to see but also hoping not to see the sudden glow of feral eyes to appear amidst the stark blackness of the forest around them.
Sensing Vincent’s unease, Hale said, “I wouldn’t worry about anything attacking us. As long as we keep the fire going, anything out there will stay out there.”
“You sure?”
“Fairly sure.”
“If you say so.”
“But by chance something troublesome does come along,” Hale patted the side of his hip, indicating the pistol there. “I’ve got reinforcement.”
Vincent noticed the moment Hale had strapped the pistol to his belt while they were making camp. Vincent understood how protection was necessary in such a remote place.
“I’m surprised you’ve never done this for someone before,” Hale said. “I mean, here, in a jungle like this.”
“A lot of different forested areas. But no, nothing this exotic.”
“How many people have you done this for? In general?”
“Many.”
Realizing that he would receive no further information there, Hale chose another route.
“They all must have such great stories to tell. But then again, I’m sure you do as well.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, I’m sure you have, you know, probably have gone. . .” Hale fluttered a hand in the air.
Vincent understood what he meant. He gave Hale a little smile, and said, “No, I haven’t.”
“You haven’t.” Hale’s face dropped in disbelief. “You must be joking.”
“No, I never have.”
“Why not?”
“I’m not able to.”
“Why aren’t you able to?”
Vincent shrugged his shoulders, like a child who couldn’t seem to understand. “I don’t know. I just can’t. But believe me, it’s not from a lack of trying.”
“That must be quite frustrating for you.”
“It was, in the beginning. But I’m over it now.”
“Especially since you’ve been able to make money off of it, am I right?”
“It certainly helps.”
The camp fire’s hypnotic flames held their gaze for a moment. Hale finally broke away and said, “You must think about it though. What it must be like?”
Vincent seemed as though he did not hear what Hale said, he kept staring in a trancelike daze into the flames, the fire’s glow reflected in his eyes like two burning embers of inner light. Hale kept staring at Vincent, expecting to hear, or at least see, some sort of response, but as the seconds ticked by the silence bled into an eerie cold darkness that crept up the professor’s spine. Now the roles of unease were reversed, and Hale didn’t dare utter a sound, to move an inch, to look away even, for fear it may provoke an undesirable response.
Due to the suddenness of the action, the next thing that happened nearly made the professor jump out of his skin.
Vincent shot up to his feet, lifted his cup and downed the remainder of his tea in one gulp. Vincent then held a blank gaze on Hale.
The professor’s breath caught in his throat, his body froze where he sat, and he now surely would not chance taking his eyes off of Vincent for even a second.
Then, as if blinking away a sudden burst of air in the eyes, Vincent snapped out of his dead stare, took in a breath, and said, “I’m going to retire for the evening. We have an early morning tomorrow, and we’ll both need our rest. Especially you, Professor.” Vincent ducked to enter his tent, but just before he did, he paused. He turned back to Hale, and said, “If there is one piece of advice I can give you . . . well, not really advice, more like a tidbit of wisdom, something I’ve picked up over the years, it is this. Do not let a careless instinct or an obsession drive you past your careful thoughts, for what you may think is paradise, may in fact become your own hell.”
Vincent ducked into his tent, leaving the professor to ponder both that dark tidbit of wisdom and the man who gave it.
At dawn both men carried their gear deeper into the jungle, to a certain place. It did not look significant, there were no man-made structures or telltale signs of previous habitation, only rich, untouched vegetation, but Hale regarded it as if it held secrets and powers unknown, turning his small frame this way and that way, eyes wide with rapt attention to every detail. He picked one particular area, holding both hands spread open before him, palms down, signifying the exact location.
Hale said, “This is it. This is the spot.”
“You’re certain?” Vincent said.
“Yes.”
Vincent nodded. “Then let’s begin.”
Hale unslung his duffel bag from his shoulder, knelt to the ground, opened the bag and exchanged the clothes he was wearing with what was in the bag. He stood before Vincent and said, “How do I look?”
“Are you satisfied?”
Hale looked down at himself, checking out the sparse clothing. “I think so.”
“You think so?” Vincent said, a skeptical eyebrow raised.
Now is not the time to hesitate, Hale told himself.
“No,” Hale said adamantly. “I am satisfied. I’m positive, I am ready.”
“Alright then. Stand in front of me. Now close your eyes and relax. Once I place my hands on your head, I’ll then need you to tell me the exact year you wish to visit, and then I’ll need you to hold that same year within your own thoughts and nothing more. If you allow your thoughts to wander, it won’t work. At best you’ll receive glimpses, sort of like clips from a movie, and that is all. So I need you to stay focused. Understand?”
“Yes, I understand.”
Vincent placed both of his hands flat over both sides of Hale’s head, and the moment he said his desired year an odd pressure bloomed inside Hale’s head that quickly spread throughout his body. Simultaneously eruptions of light strobed amid waves of heat around his entire form as every fiber of his being was at once filled and consumed by searing hot radiance. Seconds later Thomas Hale, world renowned professor of Neolithic history, was gone.
Vincent unloaded his own duffel bag to make camp for the next forty-one hours, to await his clients return. He took a seat in his folding chair and opened the book that Hale had given him the day before. The book was on Mayan history that Hale himself had co-authored with a colleague. Last night, while in his tent, Vincent leafed through the book, paying special attention to the photos of the hieroglyphics and paintings. He now gave them his careful scrutiny. Every human depiction seemed to resemble each other; a basic Mayan with dark hair and dark skin, nothing differentiated one from the other. Except for one that stood out more than all the others. Vincent had looked at all of the photos the night before but did not remember seeing this particular one. He would even bet that it had not been in the book at all when he had looked through it the night before.
Vincent Vick had sent many people back in time. Very few had been able to alter history, which was why Vincent made such thorough investigations of every potential client. In extreme cases of History Alteration, in which a client happened to alter history drastically, whether they had had deliberate intent to do so or not, the client was dealt with accordingly upon their return, a return that was always forty-one hours from the moment of their departure, a maximum time limit that even Vincent had no comprehension of or control over. A Re-aligner was a person who specialized in Past Time Re-alignment, who Vincent himself personally trained, and in the wake of an extreme History Alteration, Vincent would deploy a Re-aligner into the past to realign history back as close as possible to its original plane. Time travel was a delicate business, nothing was taken lightly, and the smallest mistakes could be dire, leaving the lives of entire generations at stake. There had been times when a client’s life was lost, and Vincent knew only too well that a lifeless vessel could not occupy space within the time travel wormhole, which was why some clients never returned.
Even though the medium of art was of the most primitive, it was obvious to Vincent that the human depicted in the photo he was looking at appeared to be as out of place in that environment as a domesticated dog would be in a wolves den. The body frame, a bit smaller, the head of hair in wild disarray and devoid of color. His death on the sacrificial alter was brutal yet meticulous and unique in its savagery.
When Vincent closed the book his eyes fell on the author’s name. Yesterday there had been two names on the front cover, Professor Thomas Hale and his co-author. Now only one name remained.
Vincent Vick, Time Travel Agent Extraordinaire, packed up his and the professor’s gear. There would be no need to wait. He could not see any reason to send for a Re-aligner either; only a minor lapse in ancient history had been made, nothing to be too concerned about.
The professor and his legacy were both forever made and forever lost with his life’s work.
 

Jeremy Mac is a multi-genre fiction author with three novels, one novella, and several short stories and poems to his list of writing credits. His short stories and poems have been published in Horrified Press's X4 anthology, Devolution Z, Down in the Dirt, Conceit, Ascent Aspirations, The Ultimate Writer, Spontaneous Spirits, The Bracelet Charm, The Enchanted File Cabinet, Transcendent Visions, Struggle, and Dead Snakes. An avid lover of sand and sun, Mac has frolicked throughout the Gulf and Atlantic coasts, but he currently writes from Arkansas. To learn more about Jeremy Mac, visit his Facebook page @:facebook.com/jeremymac.author

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